They Call It Dysfunctional, I'm Sorry
by LivingInImaginary
Summary: He's been with girls in relationships a million times before, it wasn't any different. Except it was, because this was Rachel Berry, and she was dating Jesse St James, and he was supposed to be her best friend. New York was one big lie, he thinks.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** They Call It Dysfunctional, I'm Sorry  
**Chapter:** 1/ ?  
**Author:** LivingInImaginary  
**Summary:** It began with a big city and small people. It progressed with best friends. It ended with her sneaking to him late in the night, because she couldn't stand letting either of them go. He doesn't know when he became on-the-sides to Jesse St James, but he won't give it up.

**Authors Note:** Been meaning to post this for a long, long time.

* * *

_Moats and boats and waterfalls,__  
__Alley-ways and pay phone calls,__  
__I've been everywhere with you_

_We laugh until we think we'll die  
Barefoot on a summer night  
Nothin' new is sweeter than with you_

**{**Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes – Home**} **

"Yes, thank you Mr Schuester. I'm very proud of how we went this year in nationals. Two consecutive years of winning is wonderful. I only hope the new bunch can keep up with out my talent, and that they aren't as insufferable as my teammates over there. And would you believe I haven't been attacked by a slushy in two months? We've made glee club cool, Mr Schuester, I'm positive of it. No longer will we have to go through- Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr Schuester, there's someone I need to talk to."

"Okay, Rachel," Will says as kindly as he can, although the relief was clear on his face.

She grabs Noah Puckerman's hand, her robe trailing behind her in the breeze. "Congratulations, Noah!"

He gives her a smile and wraps his arm around her. "Yeah, surprised you all, didn't I?"

"Not me," she beams. "I believed in you, Noah, and look where you are now!"

"Yeah, well, Mom still doesn't believe I'm graduating. She reckons you're a godsend. Thanks, you know, for all the tutoring and shit."

"No problem. But if you were looking for a way to repay me, I know of one. I have a proposition for you!"

He nods, sliding into his car. "You coming? Because I'm all ears. I'm thinking pizza."

"Yes," Rachel nods, waving to her fathers. "They'll meet me at the house. Anyway, as you know, I-"

"Wait, so, this deal . . . Does it involve me and you and a bed?"

She smacks him over the arms and continues. "_As I was saying_, before you interrupted me with one of your deplorable suggestive jokes-"

"It wasn't a joke, babe."

"Stop calling me that," she scowls, waving to Dolores the Librarian as they back out of the car park. "_Anyway_, I plan on moving to New York as fast as I can. I'm going to study the Art's in one of NYU's best courses, and do a little study in media. Anything that will strengthen my abilities, I'll take. I'll talk around, see if I can get into anything off-Broadway until I graduate, where I'll push my way into all the glittery lights and fame and make myself a star. I want you to come with me."

"Me? _Why_?"

"You're probably my closest friend these days, ever since Jesse broke up with me for the sixth time. I mean, Quinn and Finn and Brittany and Santana and Mike and Matt are all lovely, but I don't really feel any connection with them. And there's _no _way I will _ever _live in the same house as Kurt or Mercedes. It would be too painful. Besides, my fathers know your mother quite well from their young days as Jewish students and they'd want someone they can trust taking care of me."

"The Berry's trust _me_? The guy who egged their house for three years and threw slushies at you every day?"

"Threw being the operative word, Noah. _I _trust you now. They don't really know who that was, anyway."

Puck raises and eyebrow. "I thought you'd be, like, a massive big mouth, Berry. I mean, you have no problems complaining about me to my face, and to everyone else's face."

"I complain about everyone, Noah. It's pure fact."

He nods with a chuckle. "Yeah, okay. Say I agree, when are we going to- ?"

"As soon as possible. I've already spoken to your mother numerous times and, in her words, '_it will be so lovely for him to have some responsibility, to take care of you_'. I, of course, told her she was wrong – I don't need taking care of. But she agreed, Noah. I think it would an amazing adventure for us."

He cringes at that. "I don't know, Berry . . . _An amazing adventure_ . . . It sounds kind of lame."

"Don't be silly. It'll be fun! You aren't really going to let me go all alone, where creepy old men may be lurking behind every dumpster in every dark alleyway I stumble myself into? Just a helpless, tiny thing like me?"

"Damn it, Berry," he sighs, frowning. "You're too good."

"I know," she smiles. "Turn off here, you can get some pizza and we'll discuss living arrangements."

He groans, but takes a left anyway.

Three days later, she's on the phone to him at seven in the morning. "Thank you, Noah. You have no idea how much this means to me."

He empties out his shirts, pants and underwear drawers into his suitcase and shrugs. "Yeah, well, I guess it won't be so bad. As long as you don't talk all the time, Rach."

"Get used to it," she laughs, folding her favourite blouse neatly and placing it in the bottom of the bag. "Do you think you'll get a job?"

"I don't know . . . I might be part of the mafia or something."

"Oh please, Noah. Seriously, what would you like to do?"

"Something badass . . . But not like, climbing a ladder to save a fucking cat or anything. I'm not being paid for that shit. Maybe I could be a cop . . . I'd get a gun, then."

"The thought of you carrying around a gun and trying to save lives terrifies me, quite frankly. You'd probably get into a fight with a serial killer or a rapist. Then we'd have to run away to Mexico and change our names so he wouldn't catch us . . . Oh, Noah, please don't become a cop!"

"Whatever, Rachel. Stop being such a drama queen."

"Another thing you'll have to learn to live with."

"Really living together, eh? That's going to be scary."

"We'll have an apartment with separate rooms. It's not like we'll have to share a bed or anything-"

"I wouldn't have a problem with that."

"Noah!"

"Just telling it like it is. Besides, you kind of set yourself up for these, Rach."

There was a pause while Rachel checked her wallet to make sure she had everything and he sat on his suitcase to zip it shut – a task proving to be difficult. "Sarah! Get your scrawny ass in here and close my suitcase! Bring that huge dictionary that weighs, like, a hundred kilos."

Rachel can hear the sound of a bag being zipped up and a muffle of complaints from Sarah Puckerman.

"Shut up, twerp, or I'll sit on you."

"You're fat ass would crush me instantly, you pig. And get off the phone to your girlfriend, Mom wants to know if you'll lick the bowel. She's baking cupcakes."

"She's not my girlfriend, Sarah! What have you been telling her? She'll never stop yapping off about it now. Oh, god. I bet she's looking through the baby pictures . . . I'll be down in a second. Get the fuck out of my room, Sarah! Hello?" he adds.

"Hello, Noah," Rachel replies cheerfully.

"Yeah, I'll, uh . . . I'll see you this afternoon, okay? I have to go help my Mom."

"That's very noble of you, Noah."

"Yeah, whatever," he grumbles, hitting the _end _button.

Rachel spends the next hour studying Manhattan, the apartment they could be staying at and NYU. She decides the best plan of action is to put three quarters of her money in the bank as soon as they get out of Noah's car and find him a job before she ends up paying all the bills for the next five (ten? Fifteen?) years.

She's jumping up and down and flitting from room to room when Puck's beaten up old car rolls into her driveway.

"Noah!" she squeals, flinging her arms around him.

"Come on, get your suitcase. We got to get a move on," he says, waving to Arnold and Ryan. "S'up, Mr Berry's?"

"Oh, hello Noah. Lovely to see you," Arnold says happily. "I was just packing Rachel some lunch. I don't suppose you'd like some?"

Puck eyes the sandwiches hungrily. "Uh, yeah, cool. Ma says hi. Wants to know if you'd give her a call, she wants you to go over for dinner tonight and swap 'I remember when my child . . .' stories or something like that."

Rachel takes the two paper brown bags, kisses Arnold and Ryan on the cheeks and follows Noah out the door.

"What the hell have you got in here?"

"Everything. It's not like we're staying overnight, Noah."

It washes over him now that he's totally about to move in with Rachel Berry. He sees a list in her hands and the triumphant little way that she's walking and okay, this might not be so bad.

They stop at a MacDonald's (much to her complaint) and order some fries. They listen to an old radio station and he raises an eyebrow when she sings along to _Bohemian Rhapsody_.

"I try to get the full experience out of any song. It's what any devoted artist would do. _Mama . . . Ooh ooh ooh_ . . ."

"Righto, crazy face."

That earns him half an hour of the cold shoulder and the very worst glare she could muster.

"Noah! Look! New York . . ." she breathes, her palms pressed against the window and her eyes bright. She's been preparing herself for this day for years, ever since her daddy whispered the blessed word in her ear – _Broadway_. Ever since she knew how to Google and ever since her parents took her to her first musical, this had been all she had been waiting for.

"We're really here, baby," he grins, kissing her forehead and parking on the side of the road.

They spend that night searching for an apartment. The first was too dark; the next too expensive; the third had no bathroom; the fourth had an atrium (_the fuck is an _atrium, _Berry? I can't afford this fucking place_)_; _the fifth was next to a train station; the sixth had been host of a knife fight where two people were killed; and the seventh was just disgusting, even by his standards.

"We'll just- We'll look tomorrow," she says, stifling a yawn and stretching (and of course, he notices the way her shirt rides up). "Thank you for letting me sleep on the bed, Noah."

"Yeah, whatever," he replies, settling onto the couch.

The next morning they get a coffee from Starbucks and trail around the city. The first apartment they come across happens to be perfect. It's cosy and comfortable without being too small. It has two bedrooms and one bathroom but if he promises to keep everything sanitary, then _this _will be the place they live in from now on.

She settles her bags in that afternoon, wrapping her small arms around his waist. "Oh, Noah, this is perfect. This is wonderful. I'm in New York . . ."

He takes her late-night shopping, buying a couch and two beds and food and lamps and all the essentials they could possibly need. They don't get home until past midnight, when he can't find his keys and they wake up the half of the people in the building.

They stay up until five in the morning, losing screws and failing to understand instructions. Finally, though, their little apartment is set up. He's too tired to cross the hall and get changed, so he curls up into bed with her, clothes still on and spanner in hand.

Rachel has a dream that they invest all their money into lottery tickets. They lose over five thousand dollars and have to move out onto the streets, where she collects tin cans and busks for money. But of course, all the fumes from the trucks and cars she's inhaling ruin her lungs and voice, so nobody gives them money anymore. Noah kills a man and they get wheeled away in the back of a cop car, hair disgusting and dirt strewn across her bony cheeks.

Rachel wakes up panting, skipping to the bathroom and washing her face, hands, legs and neck before deciding just to shower to get the horrible feeling of dirty unworthiness off of her skin. She changes eagerly, waking up Noah as soon as she has a shirt over her head.

"I'm going to get a job," she tells him, brushing her hair back and watching him stretch in the mirror. "I can't survive on the money I brought. _We _can't survive on our money, Noah."

"We've been here a day! We've still got a while until all the money goes."

"We spent half of it on this apartment alone! Add all the furniture and food and we really don't have that much left!"

"Okay, okay," he sighs. "We'll get jobs."

On their way to Starbucks, she notices a little cafe down the road and, more importantly, the sign in the window advertising that they need help. Her eyes light up with the wide windows and cushiony chairs and large bookshelves lining the southern wall. "This is it," she tells him excitedly. "This is definitely it."

He leaves her to hand in her resume and drives around town, trying to find anything that sparks an interest. When he realises that his engine is overheating, he swerves into the nearest mechanics.

"S'up, man?" he asks the guy in the blue overalls.

"Hey, buddy," the guy replies, kicking an old tyre out of the way. "What's going on here?"

"Car overheated. I would've fixed it myself, but I'm low on money and I don't have any tools."

"Huh," the mechanic nods, taking a look at the engine. "This won't take a minute. So, you uh . . . You say you need a job, eh?"

"Yeah. My roommates riding me about it. We just moved in uptown."

"Right, right . . . And you're good with cars?"

"Well, yeah. I've had this one for a while and never had to take it to get fixed before, I've done it all myself," Puck murmurs, studying the rusty EJ Holden partially hidden under a white sheet. "This wasn't made here, was it?"

"Nah, mate. I got it from an Australian friend of mine."

"Cool."

"You want a job?"

"Can I have a job?" Puck asks with a raise of an eyebrow.

"Sure, you seem like a good guy. Plus I've been looking for help for a while. A lot of people bring their cars in, but no one seems to want to work here. Everyone's trying to make it out there, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know. My name's Puck."

"Puck? Righto. I'm Rick."

He gets home late that night, a new pair of blue overalls in hand and grease smudged across his neck. Rachel's hair is falling out of her ponytail and she's untying her black apron. She smiles, hands him a coffee and sits down at a table.

"I got a job," they say in unison.

"This calls for a celebration!" he grins, dragging Rachel out the door. They buy cheap wine and sit on the rooftop of the building, singing at the top of their lungs _We are the Champions_.

He wakes up in the morning on the floor, shirtless. Rachel is wearing her very best dress with slippers on her feet, her body splayed across the carpet in the most unusual way, hands and legs all in different directions.

"Rachel, baby, come on. Let's get you into bed," he grins, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

"I'm not _tired_, Noah! Let's _par-ty_!" she squeals, scrambling over the couch.

"Rach . . . C'mon, it's like five in the morning. Time for sleep."

"Sleeping is for _losers_. I'm not a loser, Noah, I'm a winner!"

"Yeah, okay, Rach. How about you go win in your own bed," he sighs, grabbing her and pulling her over his shoulders. She yells protests at him before he drops her on the bed, but a little too hard. She goes flying off and lands on the floor in a fit of giggles.

"I flew! I flew like a bird!"

Puck groans, places an arm around her shoulders and walks her to the bed. He lays her down gently, kidding her cheek. She wipes it with a frown. "Are we friends, Mr Puckerman?"

"The best of friends," he smirks.

"Excellent. I was worried you don't like me."

"That's because you're a drama queen, baby," he says with a sigh, shutting the door on his way out. "Good night, Rachel!"

"Goodnight Noah!" her muffled voice sounds from her closed room.

_Ahh Home. Let me go home.__  
__Home is wherever I'm with you.__  
__Ahh Home. Let me go ho-oh-ome.__  
__Home is wherever I'm with you._

**{**Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes – Home**} **


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** They Call It Dysfunctional, I'm Sorry  
**Chapter:** 1/ ?  
**Author:** LivingInImaginary  
**Summary:** It began with a big city and small people. It progressed with best friends. It ended with her sneaking to him late in the night, because she couldn't stand letting either of them go. He doesn't know when he became on-the-sides to Jesse St James, but he won't give it up.

**Author's Note: **OhMyGod, OhMyGod, OhMyGod. Season finale was epic. It's always epic. Thanks for your wicked response to my story, guys. You are motivation at it's best : )

_

* * *

_

_We get up early just to start cranking the generator  
Our limbs have been asleep, we need to get the blood back in 'em  
We're finding every day, several ways that we can be friends  
eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh_

**{**Freelance Whales – Generator First Floor**}**

Six months go by in a flash of coffee and grease and studying and cold soup. Rachel always hums around the home; always doing exercises to strengthen her voice (he always says she has a better voice than anyone else in this city, anyway).

One of their phones always ring at six every second night. Sometimes it's Rachel's fathers, sometimes it's Sarah and Rina. Every now and again all four of them will get together and put them on speaker.

"Noah! Have you got a job?" his mother asked the first time they all called. "You better be supporting Rachel! If she's carrying the bills all by herself . . ."

"He is, Mrs Puckerman. Noah is being a perfect gentleman," Rachel grins. Sarah snorts from the other end of the line.

"For your information, squirt, I'm a grease monkey."

"Oh please. That would involve you actually doing something, bro."

"Rachel! How are you going?" Ryan asks, trying to keep the peace.

"Excellent, Dad. I'm getting a medium wage for the hours I work, which combined with Noah's pay, is plenty to live on. We're getting by just fine. My studies are going well, although I don't feel like they're getting me anywhere. I think . . . Well, I auditioned for a _very _off-Broadway production, and I haven't heard back. Yet, I mean. I haven't heard back _yet_."

"You never told me that," Puck says after they hang up.

"I know. It's not like I would get paid much for it, and I probably won't be recognised for it or anything . . . We shouldn't get excited over it." But he can tell by the way she bites her lip and her eyes sparkle that she is _extremely_ excited. She squeezes his hand and smiles. "Aren't you working today?"

"Nope. Between Hayden, Joss, Rick and I, I'm allowed a couple of days off. Besides, Rick has a new apprentice or some shit like that. Kid's pretty much a business prick. He's all numbers and logic and stuff. He doesn't just _do _it; he has to think everything through."

"Like me," she says softly, taking his words the wrong way.

"No. No, no, no. You're better than this guy. You plan things through because you have to, because you're trying to get somewhere. He plans things through to seem important in front of the boss, who doesn't give a fuck about him anyways."

She smiles and can't help but think that he knows her pretty well; knows how to comfort her in his own way. He'd disagree – no one can understand the mind of Rachel Berry (but he's getting pretty close).

Rachel gets dressed in her room and comes out in jeans and a white t-shirt, brushing her hair back into a pony tail. "You should have roller skates, you know," he tells her.

"Oh please, I refuse to work in some tacky sixties diner. What a waste of time. Besides, I like my job. I like the people. Lu and Claire are lovely. Even my boss, Adam, is wonderful. He's never around, but he's nice," she says. He opens his mouth to say something before she cuts him off. "Don't get me wrong though. This is _not _permanent. I wouldn't forget about Broadway that easy, not when it's so close. I can practically _taste _it when I walk down the streets, Noah. It's in the air."

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes and tells her to get to work before they fire her. She asks if he'd like to come, and he doesn't have anything better to do, so he agrees.

On their walk to the coffee shop, they talk about her new friends and the guys at his work and even some old friends they had in Ohio. He still calls Quinn and every now and again, asking how Rosie is going. Artie's kind of been helping out around her new apartment, which makes Puck pretty grateful that someone is taking care of his kid when he can't be there.

When they step through the café door, he immediately likes it. It's calm and cosy – a total break from the busy streets of New York. He likes New York, he really does. But every time someone honks a horn, he is _this _close to losing his shit and slashing their tyres.

"Howdy, darling," says a tall, thin girl rinsing out a mug. "Oh, and what do we have here?"

"Hello Claire. This is Noah, he's the roommate that I told you about," Rachel says, sliding behind the counter and disappearing out the back. Claire gives him a once over before smiling and brushing a thick curl of light brown hair behind her ear.

"How do you do, mister?" she says with a warm smile. It kind of reminds him of the smile the pretty little blond back home used to beam every once in a blue moon.

"Yeah, I'm good," he replies, because he never really knew how to reply to a question like that. Claire crosses her ankles and leans against the bench. "I come from Dallas. My brother died when I was seventeen, so I hightailed it out of there with my friend Luanna and got a job here. I couldn't stand all the '_I'm sorry_' and '_what a tragic loss_'. People just don't know how to leave you alone about stuff."

Puck nods. "Yeah, I know what you mean. My dad left when I was a kid and now everyone thinks I'm some broken little boy because of it. Sure, I was kind of a delinquent and shit but I never wanted to be like him. I don't remember his face at all."

Claire nods. She has a gleam in her eye and a blush spreading across her freckled skin. "I like you. You aren't like none of those other sorry losers around here. You and Rachel are good people."

"I know she is. I'm not sure about me."

Claire lets out a laugh that sounds like a peal of bells. He decides that he approves of Claire. Rachel skips back into the room, her long hair in a ponytail and her hands clasped together.

"Noah, this is Luanna," she says cheerfully, flicking a switch on the coffee machine. Luanna's eyebrows are knit together thoughtfully and her legs are swinging off the bench she's sitting on.

"Hiya," she sings sweetly. "You must be the boy Rachel won't shut up about."

Rachel's face pools with blood and she looks at her feet. "Only because I'm so grateful he would come here with me. He's a saint. He's a good friend."

"So, you going to buy something?" Luanna asked, flipping her golden hair over her shoulder. "Or am I going to have to kick you out?"

Puck shrugs, looking around the cafe. It was pretty full, being so early in the morning, and everyone was huddled up together, shivering in their coats. "Yeah, Rach, get me some coffee."

Rachel rolls her eyes, but gets to work anyway. It has to be one of the best he's ever had, and definitely wakes him up.

"See you later, Rachel," he says, flipping a quarter into the tip jar. "There you go. Some extra for your labour."

She rolls her eyes at him and shoos him out the door.

The apartment is boring and quiet without Rachel. After two hours of kick ass crime shows, he decides its time to do _something_.

"Hey Q," he says into the speaker.

"Hi Puck. Rosie! Spit it out! Naughty! _No!_"

"How's my little brat going?"

"Being a pain in my ass and _chewing on the crayons!_ Rosie! Drop them now! Oh, thank you Artie."

"Oh, _Artie _is there," Puck grinned, staring at the ceiling. He could here Artie's deep voice and then Rosie's giggles. It made him miss home; miss his little girl. As cool as Artie was, he didn't really want the guy being her father.

"Yeah, Artie is here. He's being a godsend while you're off entertaining Miss Prima Donna. He'd make a good father, you know."

Puck didn't reply. He just stared at the ceiling for a while, frowning slightly. Quinn finally caught on that she had said the wrong thing.

"Puck, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Forget it, Quinn," he growls, a little more harshly than he intended to. "And you know, I'm not just here for Rachel. I'm here for fucking _me _too. I called to ask about _my _kid but fuck, Quinn, you just had to play the whole bad-father thing on me. Look, you know I'd be there to help her if I could. But _you_ told _me _you didn't need help, so I decided it was about time I stop worrying about your shit and sort out my own. Maybe Rachel helps me with that. I don't fucking know, I don't fucking care. Don't do that to me."

"I'm sorry, Puck," she replied quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever," he says before snapping the phone shut. He dials another number instead.

"Hey," Finn says.

"Hey, man. Quinn's being such a bitch."

"Really?" He says it in the same way he says everything – half surprised, half uncertain. "I heard Artie and her were, like, a couple and everything. Do you think they can actually _do it_ together?"

Puck rolls his eyes. "I don't really want to think about Artie getting it on with the mother of my child, thanks. Especially when she's suiting him up real nice to be a new daddy."

"Aw, man, that sucks. Hey, Britt!" he yells. "Do you want a jelly stick? I have one left!"

He can hear Brittany talking animatedly about nothing in particular and Finn replying with just as much enthusiasm. What a load of shit. Everyone was in a relationship but him – not that he wants a relationship. But it's been seven months since he's even seen a girl shirtless (except for that one time he walked in on Rachel getting changed, but he doesn't know if it counts. It was worth being counted for).

"So, you and Brittany going strong, eh?"

"Uh huh," Finn says happily. "I think I love her, man. Heaps."

"Have you told _her _that?"

"Huh . . . No I haven't. Hey Britt! I got to go man. Talk to you later."

"Yeah, bye bro," Puck says to the beeps when Finn hangs up.

He remembers Luanna's bright eyes and curls and freckled skin and long legs. He has his coat and is jumping down the stairs in seconds, because he's sick of this shit. Why does everyone else get to have someone?

* * *

"You're back," Luanna states with a raise of an eyebrow. "Can't keep away from Rachel, eh?"

Puck feels a tinge of guilt. He doesn't even really know Claire. Rachel wouldn't mind him jumping her co-workers, would she? That gets him thinking that maybe Rachel is seeing something. They've been here a solid half-year, so it wouldn't be wrong for her to be seeing someone, would it?

Why is there this nagging feeling deep in his chest?

"Uh . . ."

Before he could come up with a believable excuse for coming back, Rachel and Luanna stumble out of the back room, carrying two bags of cocoa beans and sugar.

"Hello Noah!" Rachel smiles. "I don't get off my shift for an hour, so you should go ahead an order Chinese-"

"Oh, can I come?" Claire asks. "I'm starved, and I walked here. It's getting kind of late, though . . ."

"Uh, yeah, if that's okay with you . . ." Puck mumbled to Rachel (he almost hoped she'd say _no, stay_). Rachel nods and smiles, taking a hot chocolate over to table eight. She comes back five minutes later.

"Sure, Noah. I won't be out of here for a while."

Claire swings her legs over the counter and jumps off. Wrapping her coat around herself, she takes Puck by the hand and leads him outside. It's much colder than usual, and the lights of New York are bright and almost comforting in such cold weather.

"So, Noah-"

"Puck. My name's Puck. Rachel only calls me that because she thought it was a ridiculous nickname or something."

Claire laughs that airy laugh again and shrugs. "I know an awesome Chinese place down the road. Do you like honey chicken?"

"Who doesn't?" Puck grins.

(Okay, he could get used to this girl.)

"Excuse me for asking," she murmurs in her Texan drawl, "but are you and Rach an item or anything? I don't mean to pry, but Lu and I have been awfully curious. She says you're just great friends, but Rachel is a strange creature and too hard to crack. She's got some acting abilities, that one. Why, first day and she was lying to the boss! Little white lies to cover my ass, but still . . ."

"No, Rachel and I are just friends. Strictly. Not even, like, friends with benefits."

"Hah! Friends with benefits are the best, though," she says with an easy wink. She's almost as smooth as he is.

He nods. "Definitely."

She starts speaking French to the Chinese waitress, which causes a whole lot of confusion and laughter on their part. On the way out, she starts singing _Japanese_, earning a few frowns from the elderly Asians in the restaurant.

"Oh, that was hilarious!" she laughs. He nods, smiling up into New York's sky.

"Do you want to come back to the apartment to eat this?" he asks, starting to think that he might not even try to get in this girl's pants at all. (But then she drops her wallet and bends over and well come on, he's a _dude_). Clair skips up the stairs two at a time, a mysterious/cheeky/pleading/playful/wicked smile playing on her face.

He follows her up, dropping the Chinese on the bench.

(She tells him she wasn't hungry anyway.)

* * *

Rachel sighs, rubbing her hands against her calves. Tonight was the busiest she's ever seen the place. She was so ready to flop onto her bed, maybe eat the remainders of any Chinese food Noah left behind. Every day was ten times better with him than it would be had she left for New York alone. She knows it. She can feel it.

"Noah?" she calls. The lights are on, the heater running. She hates walking home so late; especially when it's so cold, but Noah hadn't left her any choice. He never answered his phone. "Noah!"

"Oh, _God_ . . . Fuck . . . Don't do that, or we'll never get anywhere . . . I swear, baby . . ."

Rachel's eyelashes flutter and she lowers her eyes to the ground. She knew it would happen _sometime_. She was living with Noah Puckerman for Christ's sake. But still . . . Not now, not tonight. Her stomach turns as she remembers Claire leaving with him for Chinese. But she wouldn't do that, would she? Claire was better than that. Claire was wholesome and good and she didn't do one night stands, especially not with her co-worker's roommate.

Rachel decides that this house? It's not home tonight. It's been invaded; her world alienated. This wasn't a feeling she liked at all. Sliding back into her ballet flats, her eyes flicker to the brown camel boots lined up next to her own. She trudges out the door, slamming it shut behind her, only slightly (very) agitated.

It's even colder than it was twenty minutes ago, and she can feel her lips turning blue. She waves to Luanna in the café window, who is packing up for the night. Lu brushes her fingertips through her golden hair and waves back, giving a small grin. Rachel wonders if she knows about _them_.

She shouldn't jump to conclusions. It's always been a terrible habit of hers. Noah might have gotten Chinese, and they could have gone their separate ways. He might have gone into a bar, picked up some girl and gone home with her. That would be better, right? Rachel couldn't be mad at him if that were the case.

But she still felt mad.

When she turns into Central Park, she doesn't feel the flutter of her heart like she usually does. Central Park is almost like the heart of New York, a basic feature. She's dreamed of biking down the pathways in fall and strolling through on a cold winter's day for years now. It would be the cure to any hangover, the perfect way to start any morning. She and her co-star, when she finally made a Broadway production, would fall in love and sing _Singing in the Rain_, copying every move exactly while it poured down on them. The man she fell in love with would be equally as demanding and lovely and talented as she is.

(Not a boy who spent half his life screwing girls he barely knew. Emphasis on _boy_, because apparently, those ones never grow up.)

What she hates more than him right at this moment is herself. Damn it, why did she have to be so _mad _over this? What proof did she have it was really even Claire?

She thinks back, remembers the brown boots, and throws her head in her hands. It was most definitely Claire.

"Rachel Berry?"

Her eyes roam upwards, into the familiar face she knows so well.

"Jesse?" she asks, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "You're- You- Here! You're _here_ . . . In New York . . ."

He laughs the same laugh she remembers so well, takes her hand in his and leads her through Central Park.

Maybe Central Park is exactly what she dreamt it would be.

(_Should _have dreamt it would be. Dreams change, though.)

_We keep on churning and the lights inside the house turn on  
And in our native language we are chantin' ancient songs  
Then when we quiet down, the house chants on without us_

**{**Freelance Whales – Generator First Floor**} **


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Movie nights at home put a smile on my face. You know, just putting it out there.

_

* * *

I made a mistake that I never forgot,__  
Tied knots in the laces of my worried shoes,_

_Every step that I take is another mistake,__  
I march further and further away in my worried shoes_

**{**Karen O and the Kids – Worried Shoes**} **

She comes home in the morning to find Noah sipping a cup of coffee. He doesn't look fazed. He doesn't look like he's been with a girl at all (but unless he's the sort of guy to take care of those things himself while pretending there was a female specimen in the room, there was _certainly_ a girl with him last night). He waves to her and points to the bench, where a coffee is sitting for her.

"No thanks, I've already had one."

His head kind of snaps up, as if he hears a double meaning in it. "You were out pretty late," he mumbles, trying to sound indifferent. It doesn't work.

"I ran into an old friend," she shrugs, walking past him and dropping her bag on the kitchen counter. Things with Jesse hadn't been entirely easy, not as easy as this; as _them_; as Noah and Rachel. He _had _broken her heart when she was only sixteen. She had been young and fragile and of course, missing a mother and falling faster and faster with Jesse than she had with Finn. Things had been easier then. But he took her through Central Park and re-enacted _Singing in the Rain _with her, and things became more comfortable, and she wonders, _only_ wonders, whether there is hope for St Berry yet.

(What? That's what Jacob Ben-Israel referred to them as.)

"Oh, cool," he mumbles. She fumes as soon as she turns away from him. She should just go on and yell at him now. But still . . . His business is his business. She shouldn't be getting mad at him.

(But she is.)

"Hey Rach?" he asks. She whirls defensively, an eyebrow raised and a strange iciness about her presence. "You'd tell me if you, like, were fucking other dudes, right? Cause I think you-"

"Think I should what, Noah?" she asks quietly. Not a shy quietly – the kind of quiet that tells him she is about to go _ape shit_. "Do you know what _I _think? I _think _that _you_ should stop lying to me! I don't like double standards, okay? I just don't. So when I come home after a long night, I don't want to here you moaning her name. It's sick and _wrong_. I have to _work _with her, Noah!"

"So, you uh, know about Claire then."

"_Know_? From the noise you were making, I think all of _New York _knows!" she shrieks, stomping her foot on the ground in frustration. She rubs her temples. "Why? Why _her_? Why the one girl who I thought was so lovely in this crazy town? Why?"

"I don't know, Rach!" he throws back angrily. What the _fuck _is her problem? "Maybe I was thinking since Artie is practically eloped or whatever to the mother of _my kid_, and since you have your job and your friends and all I have is Rick and his lame ass, that just _maybe _it wouldn't suck so much if I finally got some play!"

"You're unbelievable!"

"What's even wrong with that? Tell me what I did wrong _now, _Rachel. 'Cause I'm always doing something wrong!"

"That's such a load of lies, Noah Puckerman. I have done _nothing _but stand by you while we've come here. I've helped with your child and I've believed in you. You were on a perfectly clean slate until now!"

"Why is this such a big fucking _problem_?"

"Because you're supposed to be my friend! And so is she! Now, I'm not the kind of person who has had a lot of friends-"

"Yeah, I noticed," he interrupts quietly. She looks like she is on the verge of murder, so he turns away and shuts up.

"- but I think there has to be _some_ kind of rule against that. God, Noah, you'd think you'd learn from the _first_ time. When it comes to sleeping with people and friends and whatever else, you just _don't_. Do you have any idea how much you hurt Finn?"

"Don't bring that into this. That's fucking guilt-tripping Rachel, you know it!"

"Do you have any idea how much you hurt _me_?" she whispers. "When I came home and found that two of my best friends – my _only _ friends these days - were doing _that _behind my back in _my _home? And now things will be awkward. What if she wants a relationship, Noah? You can't just _drop _her, because she'll know through me. And don't think for a _second_ I'll get caught up in your terrible, horrible mind games. I will _not _lie for you, or quit. You can face this mess on your own."

"It was _one night_, Rachel!"

"And I'm just _one friend? _She was just _one girl_? Grow up, Noah, or I don't want anything to do with you. I'm so sick of this! I really thought you'd moved on from that!"

"Rachel . . ."

"_No._"

"Please, Rachel," he begs, taking her wrist in his hands. "Just . . . Just tell me if you were with a guy last night. That's all. All I want to know. I told you, now tell me."

"I don't have to tell you _anything_," she hisses back, tugging her wrist away from his grip.

"Don't . . . Rach, don't fight with me now. Things were so good!"

"And who fucked _that _up?" she shrieks. The word burns like acid on her tongue, but it feels so _good_ to go off at him like this. "Who screwed my best friend?" She doesn't feel like herself at all. When did the room start spinning? She was too tired for this.

"I'm you're best friend. I've known you longer."

"That doesn't make a claim over me, Noah. That makes me a girl you used to hurt in high school, and a girl you've hurt once again."

"I didn't- You can't- I-"

"Save it," she murmurs, pressing her fingers to his lips. "I need to be alone. Please leave me alone."

Her face is _this _hurt that he stays put where he is and watches her walk away, out into the hallway and towards her bedroom.

Well, _shit_. He was kind of hoping this wouldn't happen.

* * *

He gets her some lunch a few hours later. It's some fancy-ass scroll thing from down the road, with a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. He spends a good five minutes staring at her door, wondering whether it would be a good idea to go in. He knows it wouldn't. Rachel has always been defensive and stubborn, and he _did _sort of force her out of her own home last night. He tries to do the whole 'put yourself in other's shoes' thing, and if he came home to Rach screaming some random fuckers name? He'd lose his shit. He _knows _he would.

So he's not being fair, he knows.

But he's never been one to care about fairness and whatever is right in the world. He flings her door open, balancing the tray on his arm as he does so, and storms in. She's curled up into a ball, barely under the covers. He can tell she's been sleeping, though her eyes are wide open.

"What do you want?" she grumbles at him, rubbing her forehead.

"Sign of peace," he mutters, laying down the food. "Eat, before you starve yourself. I bet you haven't eaten since, like, lunchtime _yesterday_."

"How very considerate," she says robotically, staring at the mug. "The smell woke me up. It smells delicious."

"_Eat_, you scrawny little excuse of a chick. Seriously, San would have lunged for me if I'd even waved food in her face."

"Oh, so you used food to manipulate her anger too?" she asks, a little crease forming between her eyes as she frowns.

"You eat, I'll beg for forgiveness. How 'bout that?"

There was a pause while she nibbled on the end of the pastry. "You shouldn't have to apologise for your . . . For your needs, I suppose."

He puts his head in his hands and groans. "Seriously, Rach, what do you want from me? One minute you're pissed, then all okay with it."

"I'm not _okay_ with it. I don't know what I am. I am – as you put it – _pissed_. But do I have reason to be?"

"'Course you do," he replies gruffly, because he _hates_ these 'feelings' talks. Seriously. "Whatever. Let's forget this shit ever happened."

She hesitates for a second, watching him over the rim of her cup.

"Okay."

* * *

Jesse surprises her while she's studying one day. She decided to take a trip to the local library, as she was falling slightly behind, when a book falls at her feet.

She turns to her right, to see his funny little smirk from the other side of the shelf.

"Jesse!" she exclaims brightly. She has, after all the _drama_, missed him. Missed how right she felt with him, because he was so completely like her. Missed his own dramas, and hearing about his day, and sitting in her bedroom and just talking for a while.

And even though there's this _nagging _feeling deep in her chest, telling her she should still be mad after all he'd done, she pushes it away. She's never been one to hold grudges.

"Rachel," he replies, a small smile on his face, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "We should talk. Last time was singing for hours on end."

She eases into the familiarity of this boy. Not that being with Puck wasn't easy, but it's the old memories of the easiness.

(She still remember regional's . . . Her heart broke that day, and Finn fixed it. Temporarily. Bohemian Rhapsody was _good_. He was _good_.)

She slides down into her seat, closing her books and facing him. "Talk about what?"

"About you," he says. His gaze is so intense she feels the need to look away, but Jesse always gave her a certain type of confidence. She doesn't turn away. Not this time. "Tell me, how's New York treating you?"

"Beautifully," she replies with a smile, and pushes the thoughts of the buy in the blue overalls out of her head. "I'm here with Noah Puckerman-"

Jesse chokes on the water he was sipping. "Noah _Puckerman? _Like the _Puck_ guy? Like the guy with the _Mohawk_?"

Rachel raises an eyebrow before nodding. "Well, he doesn't have a Mohawk _now_, but I suppose you'd barely remember that." He doesn't miss the acid in the voice; the air of unforgiving coldness about her.

"Rach . . . Okay, you know I'm- Actually, you wouldn't know, because I never said it. But I'm sorry. _So _sorry. It took Vocal Adrenaline weeks- no, _months_ – to get me back on my feet. To get me to stop loving you."

"You said you stopped. You made it clear," she replies, and she hates that there are tears in her eyes and that the emotions are so real when it happened so long ago. But she's never been great with letting go of grudges and forgiveness. (But Noah, Noah was _always _the exception to that rule. When he impregnated the person who had probably hated Rachel the _most _and gotten jealous over the other boy who hated Rachel the _least_, she had forgiven him. It didn't matter when. But she did. She had always been stubborn, but she just couldn't help it with him.) "You walked away with your head held high and your trophy in hand and I never saw you again – not until the next sectionals at least. But that was a vicious, cold-hearted day, and you know it, because-"

"We didn't cheat!" he says angrily. "I promise you Rachel, we didn't cheat. That was some pathetic rumour the Oral Intensity captain came up with so we'd be _disqualified_. They knew they couldn't win."

"No. But we knew we could."

"And you did," he sighs in defeat. "That's why I moved on from Carmel. We had been defeated. They were in the biggest _funk_ I'd ever seen. Ever."

Rachel trails her fingers over her lips to see if she was smiling, because she didn't know how she should/could/was reacting to this. "Well, I hope that worked out for you. Moving on, I mean."

"It lead me to bigger, better things. It lead me to you, too," he says unabashedly. His gaze was intense, and it made Rachel's heart flutter. She squeezed her eyes shut, just to clear her head, before nodding. "Let's get a coffee, Jesse."

The grin on his face was almost as big as his show face.

(But it takes him by surprise how _real _this one is.)

* * *

She takes Noah shopping one day. It's not entirely bad. He trails behind her into Bergdorf's, where she tries on a number of dresses they both know she can't afford. He promises her that once she's famous, she can take him shopping every day and buy a new dress at every shop they go in. He pulls her out the door, almost-guilt weighing on his shoulders that she doesn't have the very best right now. She will someday, he knows it.

She sighs as they walk past Madison Avenue and Macy's and Tiffany's. She points out 'interesting' artworks in SoHo that he thinks are just plain _strange_. But she thinks they're absolutely lovely and almost tricks him into bidding in an auction. She's too cunning.

They walk into another designer store (he's losing track of names, brands, numbers ). She tries on some jeans and jackets and boots and of course she looks gorgeous in them all, she always does. But she tries on this amazing emerald dress that spreads out round her. She bites her lip.

"This is what I'm wearing when I win my Tony," she says confidently, eyes gleaming. He nods a little weakly, because seeing her in the dress is like seeing her with the award in hand, and he feels proud of (and attracted to) her right now.

"You're too sexy for your own good, you know," he tells her grumpily as she shuts the curtain and reluctantly peels the dress from her body. The blush spreads across her collar bone. She thinks that maybe she should tell him about her discreet meetings with Jesse St James, but decides now isn't the time.

(She wonders if there will ever be _a time_.)

"Oh shut up, Noah," she sighs. "I have to get to work. But I'll see you at home, okay?"

"Sure, whatever."

* * *

When he gets home, he picks up Rachel's laptop and researches the NYPD. Ever since he mentioned being a cop when they first got here, he keeps thinking about it. It would be pretty cool to have a gun, honestly, and chicks totally dig a guy in uniform. He thinks next time, any chicks he bangs, they have to be strangers. _Total _strangers.

There were a whole lot of courses and training he'd have to go through to become a cop. But he figured if Rachel was going to go after her dreams and stuff, he better do the same. He bookmarked the page, turned on his old X-box and started a new game of _Call of Duty._

She calls half way through the afternoon, as soon as he's _annihilated _the ass that had been on his tail for a good ten minutes.

"What do you want?" he grumbles into his cell, not even checking the caller ID.

"Noah, that's a terrible way to pick up the phone! What if it had been the landlord or your boss or-"

"Rick? He wouldn't give a fuck how I answer my phone, Rach, they call me a dickhead every day. Not exactly polite. I guess you could call it a nickname," he says, juggling the remote and a can of coke while he reloads the ammo, drinks and talks to Rachel at the same time.

"Well it suits you just fine," she mutters under her breath. He rolls his eyes, putting the game on pause. "Are you quite done playing video games, Noah? Or should I just sit here and let you curse at me all afternoon?"

He cocks his head to the side, frowning at his controller. "How did you . . .? How did you know . . .?"

"You aren't exactly unpredictable. You're always eating, sleeping, working at the garage or playing video games. Don't you want to do something else? Something _more_?"

He wonders if she has, like, spies or security cameras in the room and she knows what he's doing right now. His eyes flicker to the sleeping computer screen suspiciously, where the details of the NYPD job application are otherwise still up. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you're a slob, and I'm trying my hardest here to get into this audition, and you're sitting around doing nothing!" she says, clearly frustrated.

"Audition?"

He can just imagine her next actions. First she'd sigh, rubbing the side of her head to try and calm herself. Then she would switch hands, taking the phone from the right and putting it in the left, while jutting her hip out and resting her spare hand on it. It was a fluid movement he knew well. When they had been going out back in her sophomore year, he liked to watch her. He didn't tell anyone, but sometimes he just did. Just because she made him laugh, _definitely _not because he thought she was cute or anything.

"_Yes, _Noah! I told you Luanna was in an off-off-Broadway production! That's why I was calling you – to tell you I won't be home until later. She got me an audition. You'll have to fend for yourself for a couple of hours, though I don't see how ordering Chinese and walking down the street is actually a challenge."

"It is when you've been playing video games all day and you can't be fucked to stand up."

"You're so lazy!" she groans. "You're going to get out of shape, Noah."

"I'm not," he promises, grasping a chair to hoist himself up. "Look, just go do your audition and stop harassing me. Good luck, baby."

"Goodbye, Noah."

He can _hear _the smile in her voice.

He scrolls through the job details again one last time, slightly more determined than he was before. Okay, so, he would probably have to be a lot fitter. Fitter than he was back in High School. He'd have to, like, run up six flights of stairs three times and run six hundred feet and use a gun and rescue a victim all in one go and _hell _if he could do that now.

He puts on a sweatshirt, sweatpants and trainers and runs several blocks to the next Chinese shop over (not the one down the street).

Jogging turns to running which turns to sprinting at full speed. Rachel singing her little heart out is a motive, he thinks. The ache in his chest is _agony _and he can _feel _his muscles pull and push uneasily as he strides. As soon as he reaches the little restaurant, he leans against the doorway and slides to the ground, panting. It hurt, but it felt good to be moving like he did. Football, however sucky they had been, had been a part of him for a while there.

A girl with brown curls smiles up from him. It takes a few minutes to actually register who it is; he thinks all the movement jostled his brain around to make him even _stupider_ than he already is (only sometimes, but Rachel likes to point it out quite frequently). Claire takes his hand and helps him up, offering him an unopened bottle of water.

"Looks like you need it more than I do, buddy."

He wipes his brow, chugs down half the bottle and breathes a thankyou.

"No problem, sweetheart," she says coolly, shaking her head when he offers it back to he. "Like I said, I think you need it more. Is there a reason you jogged almost ten streets from where you're staying?"

Puck shakes his head silently. He hadn't even _thought _about how thirsty he'd get. Rachel's voice rings in his ears – '_It's so important to hydrate yourself, Noah'_.

"Just- Trying- To keep- Fit," he shrugs.

"Keeping fit? Keeping fit is taking small steps at a time, you know, pushing yourself just that little bit more every day and eating right. Not pushing yourself off a _cliff_."

He frowns at her.

"Does Rachel know?"

"Know about what?" He's really hoping she doesn't mean that night, because he doesn't want to talk about it while things are on the verge of being good again.

"That you're attempting death by sweat," she says, with the tiniest smile, and he thinks that she's trying to forget about that night too. He doesn't mean to let her hear the sigh of relief he let's out, but she does. She ignores it.

"_No_, she doesn't know. There's nothing to know. What are you, good cop bad cop? Been watching to many crime shows?"

She rolls her eyes, grabs him by the front of the shirt and drags him inside. "Just get your damn Chinese. I'll drive you back."

"_No_. I'm running back."

"You'll get heatstroke!"

"Oh! Not heatstroke!" he gasps mockingly, slapping a hand over his mouth.

But she still drives him home. It was seriously hot out. He wasn't weak or anything.

They don't talk on the way home. He's grateful.

_My shoes took me down a crooked path,  
Away from all welcome mats,__  
My worried shoes,_

_I looked all around and saw the sun shining down,  
Took off my worried shoes, my worried shoes_

**{**Karen O and The Kids - Worried Shoes**}**


	4. Chapter 4

_So I took what I wanted and put it out of my reach__  
__I wanted to pay for my successes with all my defeats,__  
__And if heaven was all that was promised to me__  
__Why don't I pray for death?__  
__And now it seems like the unravelling has started too soon,__  
__Now I'm sleeping in hallways and I'm drinking perfume__  
__And I'm speaking to mirrors and I'm howling at moons__  
__While the worst and the worst that it gets._

**{**Dawes – When My Time Comes** } **

Things are good for a period of time. Rachel isn't even sure how long; she just knows she's incredibly, unbelievably happy. Auditions after auditions. She usually spends the day travelling across New York with Jesse, learning new things here and there and meeting new people. He introduces her to Alistair White, a Broadway director, and she has to take a long sip of coffee to stop from squealing. He says he can't promise, but will definitely try his best, to get her an audition. She's fine with that.

She spends the night hours with Noah. Whether it be karaoke-ing in their living room or sightseeing or going to watch some productions or even just studying. He introduces her to what she likes to believe is a kind of high – the type when you're so over being tired that you go crazy, or the kind where you're having so much all you emit is gasping, choking laughter, accompanied by peculiar snorts.

So yeah, things were beyond amazing. It goes like this for a good few weeks, and then it rolls into months. She wasn't totally sure where she stood with either boy, but that was okay. That was fine with her, for now.

Rachel is in _New York_.

Every morning she has to take a deep, deep breath as she looks down at the city, watching the bright yellow cabs swerve amongst the boring white and silver and black ones. Sometimes he catches her with her palm pressed against window pane, a smile playing on her lips.

She never catches him catching her. He always slides out the door and sits on his own bed, waiting for her to knock on his door and tell him to wake up.

(He's happier than ever, too, Rachel thinks.)

He wonders everyday when she's going to find someone to love her; someone to love. She deserves it a whole lot more than he does. So he asks her, often, whether she's seeing someone.

She replies with a blush and a quiet _no_.

He doesn't doubt that she's lying.

* * *

Jesse feels this sudden feeling whenever he's with her. It's almost like he's a marionette, and someone has taken all his strings and cut them. He thinks the feeling is freedom. He thinks maybe that this time, _they _are free. He tells himself he sounds like a tree-hugging hippy, but he still thinks so. Because there isn't anything tying them back. No brutal, forceful team behind him to push him on; no surprise mother jumping in at any time to complicate things; no high school in general. He finds it easier to breathe when he puts an arm around her shoulder this time around.

The first time he kisses her [since three or so years ago] they're in the library. She's freaking out about everything, from money to exams. She's really finding university hard while balancing work, bills, audition, homework and Noah.

So as Rachel is babbling on and on about pointless things and difficult people, he leans in and brushes his lips against hers. It causes a couple of glances from people across the room, but she has the most incredulous look on his face and he thinks he made the right choice.

Once she's packed up, they take a walk through Central Park. He has a grin on his face, and her wide eyes are staring at the ground. She likes how their fingers are intertwined, and her hand fits just right.

"I want you to give me another chance. No, I'm _begging _you, Rach, give me another chance."

She doesn't reply, just keeps walking alongside him. When five minutes have passed, he drops her hand, takes her shoulder and pulls her around to face him. "Rachel, please. I'm so in love with you."

The words force all the air out of her, force her diaphragm up until she can't breathe. Why?

Because she's in love with him too.

She _thinks._

But he was the closest she'd ever come to a none-painful relationship, right up until the last minute. Then it had probably been the worst. He was all she had now, and all she'd had then, and that seems to fit right with her.

(The difference is, though, that this time there is another boy. And not a stupid one. A _real _one that she's currently _living _with.)

She wraps her arms around his waist smiles up at him, and he'll take that as an 'ok, Jesse, let's see how this goes'.

He's so, so, _so _glad.

"Our first date," he says, kissing her forehead. "It should be tonight."

"Where?" she asks, looking up at him. She feels slightly dizzy, comparing their heights to the tall buildings edging Central Park.

"I'll surprise you," he says, and she likes the gleam in his eye. He takes her hands and pulls her flush against him. She likes it. "Seven O'clock," he says against her neck. "I'll be waiting outside."

(Why oh why, does Noah's face flicker in her thoughts while Jesse kisses her? It's only for a second, so she forgets about it.)

(Tries to forget about it.)

* * *

She goes home after that, because Noah surely can't feed himself, she knows it.

"Hey, darling," he grins, packet of pasta in hand.

"What are you doing?" she asks incredulously, following him into the kitchen. Pots are bubbling and sauces are stewing and _good Lord_, that smells delicious. She inhales slightly before whirling to face him, an eyebrow raised and her mouth hanging slightly open in a half-smile. He stirs a pot slowly, his brow creased in concentration, before he looks back up at her and grins wickedly again.

"I'm cooking! I'm _fucking cooking_, Rach!"

"Yeah . . . Why?" she replies, putting her bag down.

"Because you've been out all morning, and I was getting hungry, and I thought you'd be hungry too. And then I walked in here and I was looking for a pen, and I saw the book, and I opened it and . . . And well, I made some pasta."

"Could it be, Noah," she says with a grin, taking the spoon from him and stirring it in the opposite direction, "that maybe you wanted to do something sweet?"

"Sweet?" he scoffs. "I'm not a pussy, Rach. Just needed some food for my grumblin' tummy."

She rolls her eyes at him before telling him she's got it from there.

He shakes his head and snatches the wooden spoon back. "No way, baby. I've made it this far, there's no turning back now. You go rest your little head and let me work on my creation!" he beams, sprinkling some oregano in her hair.

"Hey!" she hisses back, scowling at him. "Now I have to wash it again. And it's really not healthy for the strands to be _too _clean, because-"

"God, Rach, just go chill out."

She frowns and turns on the television. It's no use though. Every noise he makes causes an involuntary head-turn or shudder from hair. All she could keep thinking was _my kitchen, my kitchen, my kitchen_. She sounded like his mother. _Literally, _Rina Puckerman. (She had met Rina on several occasions, and been slightly overwhelmed, slightly annoyed each time.)

She has to give him credit. For a boy who'd never even touched a cook book or a stove, the food was good.

"Does it taste alright?" he asks, throwing a spoonful into his mouth.

"Terrible," she grumbles back with a sly smile. "Are you sure you aren't losing some kind of badass points, cooking and all?"

Puck shakes his head, swallowing his last spoonful. "Not if you don't tell anyone. Which you _won't_."

Rachel shrugs, rinsing her bowl out into

"We'll see."

She wouldn't though. It would ruin his 'reputation'. As she's mentioned to him before, she does find all his hooligan qualities quite attractive.

* * *

It's six on the dot when Rachel starts to get ready. First she'll shower, then cleanse her face, then clean her teeth, then do her makeup, then hair, then put her new dress on, then accessories, then shoes . . . Or maybe that wouldn't work out. Maybe she should just get dressed before anything else, so she knows _exactly _what hairstyle will look better with the dress – the up do or the loose look – and whether her hair is at all ready to compromise with her and go into a particular way. Bad hair days often sneak up on Rachel. But what if they aren't even going to a restaurant? What if it's just a picnic in Central Park? That changes everything _completely_. It was only cool, so she'd need a jacket, but should she be outside all night she would surely need something more.

Rachel sits down and breathes in. She was thinking too much and making herself nauseous.

When Rachel has her dress on (hair done, too) she sits in front of her vanity and studies herself. It might be slightly vain, but she's still completely uncertain about tonight. Tonight, she dares to hand over her fragile heart one more time and make things somewhat official with the boy who broke her heart the most. She needs to know that this man can love her, Glee clubs and long-lost mothers put aside.

(She feels even worse when she thinks about this, for Rachel has always had the inkling of doubt _somewhere_ deep inside that loving a girl like Rachel Berry is a task no man is able to – or willing to – accomplish.)

There's a tap on her door just as she's brushing blush across her cheeks. "Come in," she mumbles, focusing on eyelashes as she moves onto mascara.

Puck watches her for a good five minutes. He has always found the make up process strange and very, _very _sexy. Especially girls like Rachel, who are so focused on getting it all right that they drag brushes across their cheekbones slowly and flutter their eyelashes flirtatiously without even knowing they're doing it. He also has a feeling, even if he doesn't know where it came from, that the brush Rachel was using just then would feel like a feather across his skin.

"Did you want something?" she asks quietly, turning to face him.

"Uh, yeah. Where are you going, anyways?"

Rachel snatches her heels from the bench and slides her feet into them. "I have a date," she murmurs casually. "Tell me, where would you take a girl like me if we were going on a date?"

The look on his face reminds her that Noah Puckerman does not _date_ girls, just tosses away their dresses late in the night when it [usually] doesn't mean anything. There's no consequences (yes, there is) and there's no emotional strain (not on him, but on her and Quinn and all the people around them).

"Somewhere fancy," he finally says. "Somewhere that'd make you think I was rich and dashing and all that shit. I'd have to be impressive, you know, for a girl like you."

No, no, no. She didn't mean it like _that_.

(_But he does look good in a tie_, Rachel thinks, and would it really be so bad, a date with Noah?)

"Do I know him?"

Rachel takes a deep breath, because this is where things get complicated. She was hoping he wouldn't care, honestly . . .

"Yes."

Noah raises an eyebrow and leans against her wall, his eyes scrutinizing her like the colour of her skin might reveal who it is. "You gonna tell me who?"

"Oh, I don't know if that's necessary." Rachel does a once over of her purple dress (he'd call it more a napkin, but no complaints there) and slides her bag over her arm. "I need to go. I'm going to be late."

"Come on, Rach, tell me who."

Noah has now positioned himself in front of the doorway, and she doesn't like that he thinks he can just _trap _her like this. "Jesse St James!" she says loudly, her shoulders square and head held high.

"Jesse _who now_?"

She sighs, pushes past him and walks down the hallway. "We aren't doing this now. I am going on a date with Jesse St James, and it's going to be a lovely evening, and you, Noah, aren't going to be a pain."

"You can't go out with that dickhead! He broke your heart, _remember_? Remember that broken heart and black soul and bone-crushing defeat? Rach! Come on, you can't . . . You can't _seriously _be going out with that pussy, are you?"

"I am."

He runs a hand over his face and sighs, "Fuck. _Fuck_, Rach. _Why_?"

"I believe in second chances, Noah. I've given you and Finn one, and right now, you're on the edge of blowing yours. I'm going. Have a good night."

With that, Rachel Berry is out the door and long gone into the night with some _douche _that they were supposed to hate. He thought they were, like, a team and stuff. They were _supposed _to hate the opposition. High school or no high school, the name Jesse St James _screamed_ enemy. Why couldn't she see that? He was an idiot and he hurt her and how is she okay with this?

Seriously, _how_?

* * *

He's always known Rachel was insecure. But jumping into the arms of the first guy to show an interest in her? S'not cool.

He _thought _they were a team. Glee club was supposed to stick together and shit, that's what Mr Schuester always said.

Noah Puckerman doesn't really let go of grudges. No, you're supposed to bottle them up and use them against people when they think it's all behind them. You're supposed to make them hurt and feel all the guilt that they thought they would never feel. You're supposed to hurt those who hurt you. It's karma, or something.

(It never dawns on him how all _he _wanted was forgiveness from a certain former-ex-but-now-again best friend.)

Seriously, _how_?

The date would be absolutely, wonderfully, amazingly brilliant. All Rachel had ever really wanted was a man who could do this – make her happy. And she would be happy, what with the beautiful candles and delicious food and impressive restaurant and walk through Times Square. It _would _have been beautiful, had she not been so mad at Noah.

Had she not been wondering whether this really was a mistake.

"Rachel," Jesse says to her as he walks her to the curb to catch a cab, "I don't know what's going on. You don't seem yourself. But you're so beautiful. _So _beautiful. And I love you. I don't expect you to love me yet, no, but I've had the best time with you, and I do. I miss your smile and your insecurities and your drama queen qualities. I love you."

He's talking evenly, because he's always had the talent for show business. Jesse isn't nervous or worried or doubtful at all, and though Rachel likes that because it's so _him_, she can't help but hate that he's always had it easy like that. They worshipped him like a god at Carmel. He's never had to wonder whether he was good enough, because it was painfully obvious that he was.

"I love you," he says again, pulling her closer for a kiss.

"Let's go back to your place," Rachel says quietly. He loves that she doesn't know how very sexy she sounds right here, right now.

When he agrees, she doesn't feel anything but light butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

Really, nothing at all.

_There were moments of dreams I was offered to save__  
__I live less like a workhorse, more like a slave__  
__I thought that one quick moment that was noble or brace__  
__Would be worth the most of my life._

_And now the only piece of advice that continues to help:__  
__Is anyone that's making anything new only breaks something else._

**{**Dawes – When My Time Comes**} **


	5. Chapter 5

_All my life I've been searching for something__  
__Something I can put my finger on__  
__Maybe I've been living for the weekend__  
__Maybe I've been living for this cyber soul  
__  
__Every Friday just about midnight__  
__All my problems seem to disappear__  
__Everyone that I miss when I'm distant__  
__Everybody's here_

**{**Band of Skulls – Friends**}**

When Rachel doesn't come home that night, Puck thinks there are two possibilities. Either she's _really_, _really _pissed at him, or she and Jesse are . . .

Fuck. He doesn't need those images in his head. He really _does not_.

So Puck spends his Saturday morning playing Xbox and eating chips and doing _absolutely nothing at all_. Seriously. He's never been one to get bored easily, but shit, Rachel gone is really messing with his head. He swears the clock stops every time he looks away, and then acts all innocent when he tries to catch it out.

He might be going slightly insane too.

He leaves Rachel three messages, all of them full of profanity and swearing. He even mumbles that she's a bitch in one of them, which will get her going for sure. She can't stand his 'crass, deplorable language' and blah, blah, blah. (Part of him is actually hoping that she'll come home soon, just to yell at him. _Please_, _Rachel_, _come home_.)

What makes Puck really angry is that Jesse is probably hoisting his flag on the Berry island right now, and hell, he hates that. He hates that a _lot_. He hates Jesse St James and his adorable little smile and the cool superiority he thinks he has over everyone else. He hates that Rachel doesn't hate him. Fuck, she'll probably come home boasting about how in love they are. He wouldn't be surprised if she started doodling their initials all over her uni assignments.

Once it hits one in the afternoon, he is seriously contemplating throwing out Rachel's junk. She can go fetch her papers and dresses from the New York streets while Puck laughs from his bedroom window. But then again, St James would probably make it romantic. Like, their hands would touch to pick up the same pair of panties or something and it would be all _oh_.

The worst part about _that _is that Jesse would get to touch Rachel Berry's panties.

God, he needs to hit something.

When the doorbell rings, he practically leaps over the couch to answer it. Except the girl standing in front of him isn't brunette, or midget-sized, or talking a million miles a minute. She's blond, and girly, and there's a little replica of her standing at her feet.

"Daddy!" Beth squeals, her big eyes shining. Her five-year-old arms encircle his leg, and he's left gaping at Quinn, who has this innocent expression on her face.

"You could've said something," he grunts, hoisting Beth up over his shoulder, much to her dislike. "I would've cleared this hole up."

"Where's Rachel?" Quinn asks, stepping inside, eyeing his crushed potato chips disgustedly.

"Dunno," Puck shrugs. "With some ass- jerk, I mean jerk – called Jesse."

"Huh, that's funny, remember- Wait . . . _No!_" Quinn gasps, putting a hand on her hip. "I thought she'd be over Prince Charming by now."

She doesn't notice his frown. "He isn't a Prince Charming."

"He's as close as she was going to get in _Lima_. You know, I always thought . . . Never mind. I figured I'd bring Beth up for the weekend. You miss her, Puck," Quinn says slowly, flattening out her dress. The baby doll dresses had stayed very much with her after high school. "And she misses you."

"You miss me, beautiful?" he says, turning his head around to face his daughter.

Beth pokes her tongue out at him. "If I say yes, will you let me down?"

Quinn bites her lip. "She's cheeky. _Too _cheeky. I wonder where she got that from . . ."

Puck winks at Beth, who has leapt from his arms and landed on the couch. She has his mother's grace, he sees. He's glad. Hopefully she'll be entertained by dancing and singing, and Rachel of course . . . But that brings him back to an angry place – a place he really shouldn't be in around his daughter – so he pushes the thoughts away and focuses on the two blonds in the room.

Quinn sits down on a chair and smiles up at him. It's sarcastic, which is good. Motherhood never made her soft. Not too soft, at least. "I have news. I don't think you're going to like it." Her smile doesn't falter, though, and he gets the impression she doesn't care whether he does or does not like whatever bombshell she's about to drop on him.

Puck sighs and flops into a chair, leaving Beth to watch TV. "Lay it on me, baby."

Quinn rolls her eyes and stares at her knuckles for a long minute before talking. "Okay. Artie and I, it's . . . official. We're dating, okay?"

"What about . . . What about Tina?" It's the stupidest thing he could have said, because he knew this would happen and he knew Tina and Artie split up sometime after graduation, when Artie stuck around to help Quinn.

"You _know _Tina is in Chicago, Puckerman. You didn't hear about her and Mike?"

Puck shakes his head, because honestly? He really hadn't heard from _anyone _lately from McKinley, excluding Quinn. He'd have to give Chang a phone call and see what was going on.

_God, _he sounded like such a gossip. Rachel was turning him into a chick.

"Well," Quinn beams, leaning in. Just about all girls love gossip, he's come to realise. "Tina was studying at her school library in Chicago, and suddenly someone taps her on the shoulder. She turns around, and there's Mike with a cup of coffee in hand! He said he saw her walk in, and he was about to get one too, so he got one for her while he was at it. How _sweet _is that?"

Fuck. Mike and Tina and romance, now?

"BETH!" Quinn squealed. "If you don't stop changing the channel, I'll throw the batteries out the window!"

Beth slumps into the chair, tossing the remote aside, her brow furrowed and her little arms crossed. She was a spitting image of Quinn. He'd rather that. He doesn't know how good a Puckerman-Fabray baby would look.

(He'd always thought the kid would be fucking gorgeous if it was an equal mix, but now he's not so sure, for some reason. It must be seeing Beth, looking like her pretty mother.)

"She's just like you."

"Good," he replies.

* * *

When Rachel finally comes home, Beth is taking a bath. He knew how to take care of a five-year-old girl, thank god, because of Sarah. But still, he thinks having Rachel around would have been _a lot _easier.

"Where the hell have you been?"

She drops her bag on the counter, and he notices she's wearing a new pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt that was most likely her _boyfriend's. _"Oh really, Noah, calm down."

"No, I won't calm down, Rach! You've been gone, like, twenty four hours. He could've raped you or something! What if he sold you into slavery, Rach, what would you do then? You'd be begging for water in the fucking Sahara, that's what!"

She ignores him totally, and instead cocks her head to the side, listening out for something.

"Are you hearing me, Rach?"

"Oh, shush, Noah. Why do I hear giggling? And not wasted, twenty-year-old giggling either . . ."

"Quinn dropped Beth off."

"Beth!" Rachel squeals, a smile brightening her tired face.

"Hell no!" Puck says, jumping in front of her, blocking her off from the hallway. "I'm not letting you see my daughter. She's mine and you were out."

"You're acting like a child," Rachel frowns, trying to duck under his arms. "Don't be ridiculous! Come on, let me go see her, please?"

"No!"

She makes another lunge under his raised arms. Puck grabs her and pulls her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He whirls her around into the living room again, which makes Rachel so dizzy that she is left gasping for air.

"Next time, Rach, just call me or something. I was seriously worried."

It's a lie. He was just pissed. The pussy wouldn't have the guts to hurt Rachel.

"Who are you?"

Releasing Rachel, Puck turns to see little Beth in her pink Barbie pyjamas, her golden ringlets wet and her little hands on her hips. Rachel beams wildly at the girl. "Remember me, Beth? I'm Rachel. We talk over the phone a lot. I'm you Daddy's friend."

"Oh, Rachel!" Beth beams, although she still looks slightly clueless.

Four long hours later, Beth is finally asleep on the couch. He would've offered, but Beth was tiny and that couch was a demon past ten at night. Rachel says good night to him quietly, and he doesn't say it back. He doesn't even glance at her as he closes the door behind him.

She thinks she's hurt him, even if she doesn't know how.

* * *

Beth goes home on Monday.

He swears he's _not _crying, he's not, he's not.

Rachel wraps an arm around his waist, and all he feels is anger, so he pushes her away and heads inside with one last lazy wave towards Quinn's retreating car.

* * *

See, Rachel has always had this dream. Ever since she was a little girl, and in the old films she watched, a girl woke up next to a man in the morning. She was either putting on his shirt or wearing it already. And _that_, is Rachel's perfect idea of romance. Sometimes she thinks she'd prefer it over any jewellery or flowers, because it was more personal.

So after one week of just-about-silence from Noah, while he's at the bar or work or doing whatever he does when he's angry, she sneaks down the hallway and takes a left. The door creaks open, much to Rachel's delight, and she's so glad he never got a lock. Once she's actually _in _the room, it feels more like trespassing.

The room is so Noah, but it's not. Like, there are traces of him, but not quite all of his delinquent-ness comes out in his décor.

The walls are navy and almost bare, except for the twenty five or so pictures taped above his bed. Pictures of Quinn and Beth from all stages of her short life so far, one sonogram, a few of Finn acting like a goof, a couple of Artie and Finn acting like big goofs together, one or two of his mom and Sarah, one of him playing in a local bar back in Lima even though he was underage, and the rest were all of Rachel and him. She'll have to get copies.

In the corner is an old, wooden, built-in closet, which is open with his clothes strewn across the floor. There's a mirror next to the window.

The room, overall, is boyish and messy and smells just like him (warm and dusky and earthy). But there's no motorcycling, bikini-wearing girls plastered to the walls, and there's no piles of napkins with girls phone numbers drawn in lipstick, and there's no underwear left about from any girls who had stayed the night. To be honest, that's what she had always expected from him.

Thinking of girls who had been with Noah, she realises that there really haven't beenmany. Not here, at least. He could, of course, be going to their place . . .

Rachel shook the thoughts from her head.

She pulls his McKinley football jacket on and trudges back out, hoping that this would be like waving the white flag.

Rachel hears him open the door at about five, so she crosses her legs meditation-style on the couch and waits for him.

Puck sees her on the couch, smiling up at him. Is she _crazy_? Boyfriends were supposed to give her that kind of stuff.

He goes into his room to get changed without saying a word.

She _hates_ this right now. It's the kind of fight that seems like it might never end.

_I need love__  
__Cause only love is true__  
__I need every wakin' hour with you__  
__And my friends cause they're so beautiful__  
__Yeah my friends they are so beautiful__  
__They're my friends_

_They're my friends__  
__They're my friends__  
__They're my friends_

**{**Band of Skulls – Friends**} **


	6. Chapter 6

_And I turned 'round and there you go__  
__And, Michael, you would fall__  
__And turn the white snow red as strawberries__  
__In the summertime..._

**{**Fleet Foxes – White Winter Hymnal**} **

He hasn't been keeping track of days, to be honest. He measured time by when he was supposed to be working and how long Rachel stayed away. The longest had been a blur of day and night for what he estimates was about a week and a half.

Puck is so drunk one night that, when she comes home, he frowns at her and slams his bottle on the counter. "Why don't you just move in with _him_, Rach?" he slurs angrily.

Rachel drops her bag on the ground and cross her arms over her chest. "Noah, you're-"

"_Drunk_? Why yes I am. Don't even care, Rach. Why don't you just move in with him? And then you can get married, and wear a stupid dress, and I won't even _come_. I promise I will never come to your wedding. Another promise, huh? You want to fuck this one up to?"

"I never made you any promises," Rachel says quietly, trying to be strong. He can hear the thickness in her voice though, see the trembling of her lip. _Well, good_, he thinks. It's about time she suffers. He's had enough of it.

"Maybe that's the problem, Rach! Maybe you _should _make promises to the people who care about you. But let's go back to my story. So anyway, after your big, stupid, wedding – which I won't even _know _how stupid it is because _I won't be there_ – you can go on a big fucked-up honey moon to help some endangered turtles or penguins or whatever it is 'good' people do. And then you'll come back and be fat and you'll be pregnant and your _stupid _kids will be just as _horrible _as you. And you know what? You can be happy. Or at least, you can be as happy as you'll settle for."

"Enough, Noah!" she shrieks, throwing her bag over her shoulder again. "Maybe I should move out! Then I wouldn't have to put up with your worthless crap and I wouldn't have to be tied down to some boy who works in a garage!"

"That's what you've always thought, isn't it? You've always thought I was a total loser who would never get anywhere. You picked me to come because you knew I'd always hang around because there's nowhere for a jackass like me to go, right? Maybe it's all true Rachel. Or maybe you're just a total bitch who only cares for herself."

Her hand is shaking as he talks, and he's almost waiting for the slap of her hand against his cheek. He wonders if he's, like, anticipating it. It would be the closest she'd been to him in weeks, ever since St James ruined _everything. _

"Why do you do this?"

"Why don't you listen?"

Rachel doesn't have an answer, so she starts towards the stairs. She's sick of Noah and not being able to have a life. She's sick of him making her feel terrible and she's sick of the drama in her life – which is funny, because she was so sure she was _made _for drama. She's also wondering whether he's right, if she's a bitch, if she's a terrible person. She decides against it, because he's drunk and he's jealous and his vision is clouded by the long distance of his daughter and friends.

"Goodnight, Noah."

He watches her as she heads towards the stairs, her back turned to him and her shoulders squared. He remembers the beginning of this, in her favourite sun dresses, dancing around the apartment, a smile on her face. It was almost like the seasons were changing with her mood – she was getting icier as the weather was cooler. He suddenly misses summer. He's sick of the rain, the clouds, the dull colours, the need for blankets and fires. He's sick of boring talks and lonely days and one person living in a two-person apartment. He's mostly sick of Jesse St James, though.

"I miss summer Rachel!" he says, almost like a child.

She doesn't try to interpret it as she showers. She doesn't think about it as she puts on her warmest pyjamas. She almost forgets about it as she turns off the lights and tucks herself into bed.

(Except, she can't seem to shut her eyes and sleep, because all she's thinking of is those four words.)

He flops onto the couch without removing his belt or shoes. Rachel is too draining; life is too draining. God, he's sick of this.

God, he misses high school.

* * *

When Puck wakes up to find Rachel not in her room, he isn't surprised. He just puts on his running clothes and gets ready for a _long _jog. He needs to clear his mind. He passes the coffee shop and sees her working, but he can only recognise her by her long, brown ponytail. She's facing away from him, thankfully, and doesn't see him sprint by.

The sick feeling doesn't go away, though, once she's out of his sight.

Puck dials Quinn's number when he gets home. He needs to hear Beth – to hear a familiar voice. He needs to make sure that somewhere back home, things are in there rightful place and he or Rachel (or most likely Jesse) hasn't screwed things up there too, somehow.

When he hears a sigh on the other end of the line, he already gets the impression he isn't wanted here either. "Puck? What do you want? I'm in the middle of something."

"Whatever Q. I really need to talk to my- Ah, sick! Really? With Beth there? God, Q, have some . . . Not around my kid, okay?"

Quinn snorts over the line. "She's not here, Mr Suddenly-A-Good-Protective-Father. She's with my mom."

"Oh. I'll just . . . Bye Quinn." She doesn't reply, just hangs up.

He has an idea, and with his phone in one hand, a suitcase by his side and his best friend still living in Lima, he decides it's time for a good long trip away from Rachel Berry and her fantasy world.

* * *

When Rachel gets home from work, her eyes are puffy and tired from crying the night before and her legs are aching from the busy day. She can't blame people – the café is a great escape from New York's weather.

Noah isn't home and most of the junk that had been lying around on his floor is gone. On her bed is a note – a note she hardly thinks she wants to read.

But she does it anyway.

_Rach, _

_Guess you're pissed at me. Of course you are. You always are. I'm not going to apologise, I'm pissed at you too. Like, really mad. Like, __so __ mad. _

_You ditched me. You dragged me along to this city and I'm stuck as a dead-end while you have your great boyfriend and your career that's going to go somewhere and Rach, God, I'm sick of it. _

_I could swear and swear and swear in this letter, but I won't. One, because I know you hate that. And also because I dunno how long I'll be gone for. _

_I'm enlisting in the army_.

This is when her heart stops beating, and all the breath is sucked out of her. She can't bring herself to read the rest. Oh no, she can't. She just can't.

She does, though.

_Hah! Just kidding. I'm going to stay at Finn's. I don't know how long I'll be there and I don't know why. I'd rather be a loser in Lima and belong than tag along on your dreams and stop mattering after a while. God, I sound like a low-aiming version of you right now. _

_I'm not sorry, _

_Puck. _

He's done a squiggly little P underneath his name, which she takes to mean is his signature. He really has terrible writing.

How is she thinking about _handwriting _now?

She reads over the letter a couple of times before shuffling back into his room and falling asleep on his bed. The sheets smell like him, and they almost still feel warm, even though he wouldn't have been lying here for a good ten hours. If he had been lying here with her, she'd apologise. Maybe. No, no she wouldn't. Not for last night, but for bringing him along like this, yes.

She _is _sorry.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs into his pillow as she falls asleep.

* * *

Rachel wakes to the sound of someone knocking on her door. Her hair is disgustingly messy and she still has on her apron, black t-shirt and jeans from work. But she opens it anyway, because _maybe _it will be Noah, telling her he just wants to be her friend again.

It's not.

Jesse looks stunning compared to her. His hair is combed back and his eyes are taking her in like she's the loveliest thing he's ever seen. "Rachel," he mumbles, kissing her cheek.

Rachel's eyes flutter shut for a second, and it feels good like this – to be held. Warm and strong and caring. "I love you," she says quietly. She hadn't said it yet, but they'd been dating for a few months now, and it had never sounded so true than in this moment. "Please just stay."

They lay down on her bed, because she's still tired and he doesn't want to let go of her. They don't sleep. It's nowhere near as warm as Noah's bed, but it will do.

That's what Jesse is for, right?

Somewhere after dinner but just before sex, she calls Noah and leaves him one or two (seven) messages. Not apologies, just grumblings about where he is. She knows of course, she has the letter, but he's hoping she'll call him back. Maybe he'll think she never got the letter. Maybe he'll think she stopped reading, and believed he was really off to be a soldier. (But pfft, yeah right.)

"Call me back," is the last thing she says before joining Jesse on her bed.

"You're sad," Jesse notes quietly, brushing his fingers through her hair. "Don't be sad."

"Noah's run away," Rachel mumbles. She can't decide what she hates more – the fact that she's talking about him as if he's some undisciplined child pulling another stunt, or the fact that she knows he'd hate that if he were here. But he's not, and there's obviously nothing she can do to change that. "But he was drunk, the last time I saw him. He said things, and I feel so bad, but I can't apologise. I should but just . . . Not now, not for this. This is my life. It's finally all stitching together."

Jesse grins at her, knowing he's a lot of the thread doing all this stitching. He doesn't know that Noah is probably more of it.

"What did he say?"

"That I should just leave and live my life. That I was horrible and selfish and I only ever looked out for myself. He's right you know." Jesse is about to interrupt, but she places a finger on his lips. "No, no. He really is. I brought him here because I was afraid of the people and the challenges. I would have still brought him had there been other options, but still. I'm terrible."

"It's okay to be afraid," is all Jesse says. It was what she wanted to hear, but not necessarily what he should have told her.

* * *

"Call me back."

That's _all _she said. No, '_Noah, I'm sorry_'. Not even a '_Noah, I swear I'll scream if you don't pick up this phone'_ ('cause Rachel screaming? He lost his hearing for twenty seconds the first time it happened).

Finn quirks his eyebrow in that _adorable _way that just seems to reel the chicks in. Brittany is humming in the kitchen, baking some choc-chip muffins or something, even if she doesn't really get the instructions, or how to work the oven, or the whole _rising _process altogether. He'll probably be eating raw mixture for dessert tonight.

(That's the best bit, though.)

"Is Rachel okay?" Finn asks, being all high and mighty with the caring thing. God, when is he ever not the good guy? It makes Puck look like an ass sometimes.

(But a _bad_ass, so it's all good.)

"Don't know, don't care. You gonna keep pressing pause, you pussy? You're just pissed you're losing."

"Don't you think you should, like, make sure she's okay?"

"No," Puck replies, thrumming his fingers on the controller. "Dude. We have serious time to kill. Play the damn game and let me crush your last bit of dignity."

Finn exhales slowly, pressing _resume game_ and continuing on with the game. He was kind of worried about Rachel – mostly because of all the hell Puck was surely putting her through. But also because of the whole Jesse thing, and the last time Jesse came around it seriously meddled with all of Rachel's relationships, not just the whole, Finn-and-Rachel one. He screwed up her life. It's just not cool.

"Fine, man, but you can't stay here forever. Me and Brittany are going strong. It's _hot_," Finn grumbles, hitting the same button repeatedly. Puck raises his hand, his eyes never leaving the screen, for a high five. "S'not fair! My controllers screwed!"

Puck just laughs. Son of a bitch.

"Stuff the cupcakes!" Brittany announces, twirling into the room. She was in USA Cheer, and about to head off for International ___Cheer_ Union Championships. She was still a babe, of course, with all the working out, but still as dumb as a post too. "Let's order pizza, Finnie."

"Aw, Finnie!" Puck coos, punching Finn in the shoulder. Finn groans, standing and kissing Brittany on the cheek before picking up their home phone. Puck doesn't know when Britt moved in, but Finn seems happy as ever, so it's all good.

"I told Finn Rachel was a good person," Brittany mumbles, "that you shouldn't be fighting. You know, except for the fact that she's contaminated with that new zombie virus. I'm sorry." She pats him on the shoulder and, like all conversations with Brittany, he's left wondering if he's missed something.

But Puck has missed these people, however adorably airless their little heads were, and he's missed this town. He's missed the summer days and the pool cleaning and parading around without a shirt.

It feels so good to be free of Rachel.

(Actually, that's a lie. He misses her.

But he tells himself he missed his best friend more.)

_I was following the pack__  
__All swallowed in their coats__  
__With scarves of red tied 'round their throats__  
__To keep their little heads__  
__From fallin' in the snow_

**{**Fleet Foxes – White Winter Hymnal**} **_  
_


	7. Chapter 7

_Lately, I don't think you of you at all__  
__Or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on__  
__I never think of calling you or how things could have been__  
__Or wonder where you sleep at night or whose arms you wake in_

_I'm living alone, living alone; I don't need you anymore__  
__Lately_

**{**Helio Sequence – Lately**} **

Puck lies awake at night, waiting for a phone call, wondering what Rachel is doing right now. It's been almost a full week since he left; almost eighteen months since they first moved here. Time keeps moving, even if they stopped.

Finn kicks his lazy ass over to the NYPD headquarters to _enquire _about an _application _because he'd like to _change his career past _and really _branch out _to find all of his _talents and abilities. _He comes back with a bunch forms and a _'you better be ready_'.

He feels small, for once in his life.

It's been a week since he last heard anything from Rachel, and it will be longer until he sees her again.

* * *

Rachel stares up at her apartment, trying to figure out which is the twenty-third one. Jesse's fingers are hovering above her arm, afraid to touch.

"I'll miss it," she tells him quietly.

"I know."

"Alright then, if we're going to do this, we should do it before- Um, before my roommate gets home." He doesn't make any comment about Noah, which she's thankful for. "I'll pack my clothes, if you could just get the things like my laptop and study books. I'm so behind . . ." Rachel stares at her knuckles as she walks inside, as if they're the most important thing in the world.

Her hands aren't. She - her future - was right now. Noah couldn't mess with that, Rachel just wouldn't allow it.

Every breath she sucks in seems to carry weight, like the air particles have increased a thousand times in gravity, but just not on Earth. The clothes are first to go, then the toiletries, the sheets and pillows and then, lastly, the posters on her wall. Some were from Broadway, productions she had dreamt of being in, and some were pictures of New York; of her in New York. She was still in New York, and even _he _couldn't take that from her.

"You ready, Rach?" Jesse calls out. Rachel wheels her suitcase to the door, carrying a pillow stuffed with her folded sheets, and she follows Jesse to the elevator wordlessly, locking the door on her way out.

The cab ride to his place – to their place, she supposes – isn't that long. It's short and quick, with bare pain that hurts only for a while. Like ripping off a bandaid.

In fact, Noah himself was like a bandaid. He healed her for a while, made things good in New York, but after a while, the bandaid had to come off, because it was all mangy and ruined.

(They themselves – Noah and Rachel – were the mangy and ruined part.)

Jesse holds her hand the whole way, and Rachel thinks this is how it's supposed to be. She's ridding herself of the nuisance and distractions in her life. She's edging on Broadway, with the perfect boyfriend in the most amazing city. She was building herself for – no, she was already _built _for – fame.

So the days go on. Each day, this feeling in her chest grows, until it aches. She doesn't know what it is.

* * *

Puck arrives home two weeks after he first set foot out the door, yammering onto Finn and juggling all his junk (car keys, wallet, etc . . .)

The house smells like dust and loneliness. He opens the curtains, calling out _her _name. She doesn't answer, so he drops his bag on the bed and investigates her room.

Stripped bare of everything 'Rachel'.

He doesn't think he's mad anymore, but spends the night drinking beer and watching a baseball game rather than trying to find her.

* * *

Jesse was linked arm in arm with his cast mates. Rachel watches him skip down Broadway, the fading sound of laughter and cheering dying away. This was it. This was his big break.

(The terrible, horrible, unbelievable part of her almost _hoped_ he wouldn't make it.)

It's her second night with Jesse, and it's his first night as a star. She had been there, watched him. He was, almost impossibly, more brilliant than he had been back in high school. And there had been emotion, now. Emotions she knew that he conjured up by thinking of her.

She is reminded of Noah, their own celebrations. Drunk on the rooftop, singing songs by Queen.

_Oh_.

Her heart aches for that same peace of mind, that same simple beauty in such a terrible yet wonderful world. It's a needy, clingy feeling that she isn't used to. She hadn't thought about Noah in weeks, and things had been good. She had Jesse St James, and he was beautiful. He was everything. They were perfect equals as they had been in high school.

But that was Jesse playing Melchior, arm in arm with a girl called Rose Martriench, who played Wendla. And this was a broken Rachel Berry, confidence crushed, standing on a New York curb, waiting for _something _to mean _anything. _

She's running as the rain hits her skin hard, heavy droplets that splash against the cement and soak her favourite flats. She'd like to say she doesn't know where she is going, where this road is taking her. But she knows. She _knows_, and it sends relief down her spine.

When Noah opens his door, she's shuddering and flinging her arms around him.

"Please," she whispers. "Please don't hate me."

He doesn't, but can't find the words to tell her. Is it wrong that he _wants_ her to feel guilty?

They stay like that for a while, arms around each other in the doorway, until a young girl walks past and starts laughing. He shuts the door behind them, keeping an arm around her to keep her warm.

"Rach . . . You're soaked. The fuck are you doing running about in the street when it's practically hailing?"

"I- Jesse . . ." she whispers, staring at the ground.

"What did he do?" he growls, staring her straight in the eyes. "If he- If he's not treating you _right_, Rach, you can't . . . You . . ."

"He didn't do anything. I shouldn't be here . . . I miss you," she whispers. "And I'm not good enough for this world, Noah, it's too big. It's just _too big_."

He watches the tears slide down her face before he can gather any thoughts.

"He's on Broadway, huh?" he murmurs, taking her hands and pulling her towards him. She nods.

"It's all I ever wanted," she sobs into his shirt. She leaves a mixture of tears and snot on his shirt, and would be embarrassed if she didn't feel so _safe_. "And he just got it. Just like that. Just snatched it away from me."

"Yeah," he replies, resting his chin on her head. He knew what it was like, to have someone like Jesse steal something from him. "I know the feeling. He snatches a lot of good things away."

Her big brown eyes look up at him sadly. "I left. He didn't snatch me up."

Puck shakes his head, because he's _sure_ that if the douche hadn't come along, this wouldn't be happening right now. "Can we be friends again? Officially?"

"Officially . . ." she mumbles. "That sounds nice."

He leans down on one knee, grins up at her and hands her the little connecter (whatever those things are called that attach to the lid) on his bottle of coke. "Will you, Rachel Berry, be my friend?"

"You're such a child," she laughs, choking on the last, remaining tears. "Of course I will." The band slides over her finger effortlessly, and falls right off again. He picks it up, places it in her palm and shrugs.

"You want me to sleep on the couch?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to be alone."

He could take those words so wrongly. He could, so easily, kiss her right now. "Okay," he says after a long pause, heading into his room. "Okay."

His clock reads two in the morning, so she figures he was just about to sleep anyway. He takes off his shirt and dives under the sheets, placing his hands under his head. Rachel digs through his draws, picking up an old Aerosmith t-shirt and shrugging it over her head. Peeling the wet clothes off from underneath, she digs through her old draws in her old room and finds a few pairs of socks and underwear that she left behind.

When she gets into his bed in his boxers and his t-shirt, grinning is inevitable. "You look too good in my clothes, Rach."

She smiles too, and although it's only small, it's a smile at least. When he scoots over so their noses are almost touching, she realizes this might not have been the best idea.

Because his breath on her neck, his legs against hers, was _too much_. Especially with a broken heart.

"Don't kill me," he says. Her eyebrows are raised, her mouth open to speak, when he brushes his lips against hers. When her eyes flutter open, he's watching her. She doesn't even blink when his hands rest on her hips, when his thigh touches hers.

"One night," he breathes. Her brain, which is preoccupied with the warmth of his body and the look in his eyes, doesn't catch onto what he says, what he means, until a good two minutes later.

She looks appalled. "But Jesse-!"

"But Jesse is an ass," he interrupts. "And I miss you."

Those three words are enough to get her to say yes. Pulling her shirt over her head, she rests her forehead against his. "Okay," she whispers, biting down on her lip gently. "Okay."

His kisses are gentle, she supposes, because he's unsure. She's unsure too. But she _knows_ how he can be; one week in sophomore year brings back memories.

"Why did you go, Rach?" he asks quietly between kisses along her neck.

"Because I'm meant to be with Jesse."

He pauses to give her a bitter look, before placing one knee on either side of her to kiss her again. She rolls over so she's hovering over him, biting down on his lip gently. "Just one night," she warns, although it was hardly meaningful. Neither particularly cared about time and days and whether the rest of the world was even alive.

His belt is undone and her skirt is off in one swift moment. She has to give him credit. She's finding it harder and harder to breathe . . . Is it normal for a heartbeat to go so fast? She doesn't know. Any clear thinking went out the window with the first kiss.

"Are you holding back on me?" she says. Her voice is a cross between a whisper and a laugh. They're sitting up now, and maybe it's just because his body against hers is making her weak, but she can't remember how they got to this position.

He doesn't know when Rachel became good at turning guys on, but that holding back on me thing? Made the kisses _urgent_. Like he _needs_ her. He's needed sex before, but not an actual girl. But _Rachel _in particular, her body flush against his, he needs this. Not from anyone else. Just her, right now.

Her fingers fumble with the buttons of his dark blue shirt. Her incoherent mind has a second to admire his chest, before she realises that her bra is now on the floor. Her breathing quickens as her kisses her chest, her neck, her collarbone.

"Just . . . Just hurry up," she laughs, grazing her nails lightly over his back. He arches at the feeling.

"I'm gonna do this right," he says quietly, his eyes flickering to her bright brown ones. "Full Noah Puckerman experience."

She bites her lip to stop from laughing. "I'm not supposed to laugh! This is _supposed_ to be sexy."

"I'm sexy."

"Yeah . . ." she murmurs.

She doesn't remember a lot after that. Just his hands and this _warmth _in her body that had never been there before, not with Jesse.

She would believe this is wrong, if she wasn't about to scream his name.

_I don't get lost in daydreams_  
_I never lay awake at night staring in my bed_  
_And i don't think about your face or anything you've said_  
_And i don't think twice when someone says your name_

_Or twist my mind in circles wondering which of us to blame_  
_I'm living alone living alone i don't need you anymore_  
_Living alone living alone i don't need you anymore_  
_I never walk alone and think of all the empty word_

**{**Lately - Helio Sequence**} **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/n: **Kay, so it may have been the shortest hiatus ever, but it's off it now. Thanks so much to everyone who left all those amazing reviews and personal messages and whatnot. Also thanks to **cheapen**, who beta'd this for me.

_

* * *

_

_I know you're lying to me__  
__Cause your palms start to sweat and your knees are getting heavy__  
__Eyes closed, you're lying to me__  
__When your heart starts to race and your feet are getting ready__  
__You're fumbling for the phone on the wall__  
__There's nobody left to call, cause there's no one out there__  
__It's hard to believe that no one could see __  
__The writing on the wall_

**{**Amy Meredith – Lying**}**

When he's lying next to her, breathing slightly heavier than usual, she takes a deep breath.

"Don't say it," Puck mumbles, his fingers trailing down her body as if walking. He isn't watching her, just watching his hands as though he was acting out a difficult task. She's watching him not watching her, and maybe this is their own brand of comfortable awkwardness.

"Don't say what?" she asks. It comes out in a breathy tone, and she notices how his eyes flutter shut for a second.

"Just don't say it. Whatever you're thinking, don't say it."

There's a silence while they both think, and he's still watching his hands and her hips. "But what if it's true?" Rachel murmurs. "

"Don't talk. Just stay." He _still _hasn't looked her in the eyes.

"Why won't you look at me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Rachel tells him, annoyed. She's surprised she isn't embarrassed, or angry, or regretful, or regretful . . . No, she couldn't feel even an ounce of regret. She wonders why that is . . . When did she become so unashamed? Did her conscience get thrown out the window, along with all of her innocence? Because she's sure that must be long gone. "You won't look me in the eye."

Puck's eyes flicker up to meet hers before gazing beyond her, out the window.

"What's wrong with you?" Rachel shrieks.

Puck frowns before flopping his arm over his eyes. But then he hates the thought that if he looks away long enough, she'll walk. And he doesn't want her going anywhere. So, inhaling, he stares at the ceiling and begins to count the specks in the paint. "You'll be hightailing your little ass out of here as soon as his name comes up on caller ID, or as soon you realise that you've 'done the wrong thing' or something stupid like that."

Rachel pauses before speaking. "Do you think I did the wrong thing?" He hates that her voice is all small, and she's edging away from him, afraid of his answer.

"I don't think _we _– like, you and me – was wrong. I think that you've still got Jesse St James on your arm is a shame, though. Always has been, always will be."

Rachel gives him a look before mumbling away excuses as to why she's currently scrambling for her jeans and pulling them on. He watches her, pulling her jacket over her shoulders, and wonders why it seems like last night never happened.

"Call me, then . . ." he shouts out the window sarcastically as she jumps into her car.

He doesn't know if he's pissed or shocked.

* * *

"Is that you, Rach?" Jesse calls from his (_their_) room. She bites the inside of her cheek as she places her bag on the floor.

Oh, those feelings flood back. The regret and the guilt pour into her life until she thinks she might drown in it. "Yeah, it's just me, Jesse." No, that was _all _wrong. Her voice didn't even sound like her.

_It's too hot_.

She hears footsteps. "Rach . . ."

_Oh God._

"Hey, so I was thinking-"

_Dear God, dear God, dear God. No, no, no. Holy shit_.

"-that we could go see a film?"

_Oh, oh, oh . . . _

"Sounds great to me," she smiles. It all comes too naturally. Maybe she was made to act, to be famous.

To lie.

"Tonight. It'll be great. We can see whatever you want to see." She replies with an "I need a shower" before hurrying off towards the bathroom.

Rachel stares at the cold, tiled, walls for a long time. She's planned out her life on her bathroom walls, wherever house they might have been in. She trails her fingers around, doodles pictures, maps out hard decisions. A cross between the water and a drawing pad that no one will ever see once the steam and water have cleared seems to calm her.

When she thinks she has a decision (own up to everything and beg, cry and plead for forgiveness) she turns the taps off. It's time to face the unknown.

When he kisses her wet cheek as she crosses the hall, she doesn't even remember having a plan.

"I love you, Rachel."

Yes, she knows, that's the problem.

"Wait- Where were you last night?"

Rachel will figure it out, she know she will. So instead, she wraps her arms around his waist. "Luanna's. I didn't want to disturb your well-earned celebrations." Add a grin, and she swears she could be telling the truth right now.

God, it can't be this easy, can it?

* * *

The day has been perfect.

Yes, it can.

* * *

Puck hasn't heard from Rachel in a week, since 'the night' - or whatever Miss Double Life wants to call it. He goes jogging and watches WWE and eats Chinese and works and saves up his money and goes to the gym and watches baseball and . . . Well, it's all just one big cycle.

One day, when he's running early getting to work, he stops by the old coffee house and grabs a mocha de la fancy (or something like that). Claire winks at him all suggestively and sweetly and Puck just nods at her as he hands over a ten. He can't go back there.

He has to bite his tongue from asking if Rachel has emerged from the St James love nest at all in the past seven days and actually done something except lie. And in case you're wondering, hell _yes _he's pissed.

As he's walking out the door, he hears Luanna walking around and behind the counter. "Did you hear, Claire? Rachel's gone and dumped her studyin'. Good on her, I reckon. She'd be nowhere if she kept going on like she was going on. That girl's got more talent than the whole of this street put together. If she doesn't make it, I swear I'll write a letter to Buddha or God or someone and complain."

Puck stares at the pavement and counts the cracks every metre or so. Someone told him that if you tap your left – or right, he didn't remember – foot thirty times, you'd know exactly what to do. It was all that mind-tricking illusion stuff that Puck never really got. It was probably Finn, which was why it sounded so stupid.

By the seventy-fourth crack, he's pulled out his phone and left a pathetic message. "_Hey, Rach . . _. _Call me back, would you? It's been a whole- You know, it's been months. See you round._" He decides to be sneaky and cool about it in case _St Douche the Eighth – King of Dicks_ (he totally thought that one up on the spot) was checking out her messages and watching her every move and making sure she didn't have a life. That's the kind of thing [Puck thinks] he'd do.

He gets home and seriously considers going to a bar, picking up a random, slutty girl and heading to her home for the night, but what's the point?

Instead, Puck taps his left foot thirty times. But he doesn't feel any more decided, so he taps his right. But then, still no change, so he taps them each sixty times – more taps equals more wisdom, right? Still nada. So then he gives thirty taps to _both _feet at the _same time_. That's when he gets really frustrated.

Puck spends the rest of the night slightly drunk and harassing Finn's voicemail.

* * *

Puck is jogging another two weeks or so later, and he's totally forgotten all about Rachel Berry. All he remembers is her whiny voice and incredible shortness and those stupid, wet, pleading eyes. Yes, Rachel Berry is just a distant memory of kissing and singing. He's never met someone more annoying.

(This feels like high school all over again.)

Puck's getting pretty toned and fit now. He's totally regaining his babe-attracting, badass status. (Not like he ever lost it, though. This is _Puck _we're talking about.) Chicks have been coming up to him all the time – especially in bars – and slipping him their numbers written in lipstick on slightly-dirty napkins. He's pretty much as hot as he was all those years ago, back when he was a dumb ass of a Sophomore. Puck's not a dumb ass now, though. No, now he's mature and grown up and _still _fucking hot.

When Puck reaches the brown, brick building down the street, he barely has to peer inside to know Rachel's there. The place is alive and warm and earthy, and he can smell the coffee and the bagels through the door. Claire's there too, with that young, blond manager with a nice smile and hot body but engaged to some Upper Eastside rich guy.

He keeps running. She'll start talking to him when she wants to – and maybe by then, he won't _want_ to listen.

Actually, he turns around and walks inside. Rachel doesn't spot him at first; she's too busy serving some tall guy in a Fedora. Some _sleazy_, tall guy in a Fedora, Puck happens to notice.

"Can I get some fuckin' service 'round here? God, this place has gone down hill."

Rachel turns with a hand on her hip, her eyebrow raised and her face incredulous. "I cannot _believe- _Oh."

Fedora-boy turns around, which makes Puck kind of stumble backwards, just a step. (He's, like, mega tall, okay? Taller than Finn. _Really, really _tall.) "Look, bro, if you got a problem, you can talk to me."

Puck snorts and gives Rachel a look. "Relax, buddy, I was making a joke at my friend here. Learn some sarcasm when you hear it, before you start threatening the public. That shit can get you in jail, you know."

Rachel rolls her eyes, mumbles an apology to Huge-Fedora-Wearing-Boy and runs a hand through her hair as he nods, smiles and almost hits his head on the doorframe on his way out. "What are you doing here, Noah? We're very busy."

He never forgot her, not really.

Puck looks around them with an eyebrow raised, searching for the crowds of people that clearly weren't there. "You don't look so busy to me. Rach, I left you a message, like, a fortnight ago and you never replied. Why are you avoiding me? Don't they usually talk about this stuff in your movies?"

"What, as opposed to your movies, where all they do is shoot each other?" Rachel grumbles, not bothering to hide her obvious frustration with him. "Besides, Noah, we aren't a movie. If we were a movie-"

"You'd be the right guy, and I'd be the best friend . . ." he hums, grinning. She doesn't look amused, _at all_. "What? Sarah liked Hannah Montana, okay? She used to make me sit down and watch it with her before going _on _and _on _about Nick and Miley and which hair colour suited the bitch better."

"Firstly, please don't insult her. She's been iconic among so many young children today, and-"

"You're really gonna' go there?"

"_Secondly_, what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you."

Rachel thinks there's a double meaning in those words, but she doesn't point it out. "I'm working."

Claire looks up at them, half suspicious and half flirtatious. Her cheeks go red when she realises Puck is looking at her looking at him, so she turns around quickly and heads back into the storeroom. "Can you please let her know that I'm, like, not interested?"

"You have your own mouth," Rachel frowns, scrubbing a spot on the bench a little harder than necessary. "Besides, I thought you would've enjoyed the attention. She's a girl, and you're a boy, and it's about time you got a proper girlfriend, Noah. Unless you'd like to sleep around and never settle down. You can be the boy you always were in high school. You'd never have to grow up or face your mistakes." She's still scrubbing at the bench like it's Broadway competition.

Puck ignores her insult that might not have actually been an insult (he has a feeling it was) and places his hands on the table like in those old good-cop bad-cop films. He's been watching a lot of them lately. "You're a girl."

"Yes, I am."

"Rachel . . ."

"Not now, Noah."

"You sound like my mother."

"Did you annoy your mother this much?" Rachel asks, but there's a hint of a smile on her cheeks.

"Hey, Blondie!" Puck yells, waving over Rachel's manager. "Has Rachel had her lunch break yet?"

The manager – whose nametag says Rosie – strolls over. She'd be a babe, if it weren't for the taken-by-a-guy-worth-twenty-times-more-than-Puck's-whole-apartment-block-put-together thing. "No, she hasn't actually. Who are you?"

"Noah Puckerman, undercover detective. I'm gonna have to take her outside and question her. It seems to me she's been smuggling things in from Tokyo, Japan. The Japanese president, Fung Shooi Moo Moo-"

"Oh, shut up, Noah," Rachel sighs, dropping her apron on the counter and following him outside. "I'll be back in a half hour, Rosie. Bye, Claire." Claire nods and smiles fakely, mustering up a real psycho, jealous look in her eye.

"I hope you know that Japan doesn't actually have a _president _as such. They have an Emperor, as their government is-"

Puck shuts her up with a kiss, pushing her against the bricks of the café.

"Stop!" she shrieks after a minute. "What if someone sees us? What if Jesse wants to come and see his girlfriend at work, and finds me making out with my old roommate?"

"I'll say get in line, buddy, 'cause I've been waiting three weeks."

Rachel takes a fistful of his shirt, looking up at him with those pleading eyes. "Please, Noah, don't do this."

"I miss you."

Rachel looks past Puck, staring at the department store across the road. "I know." It's all she says.

"Come on, Rachel, this isn't fair."

"I can't _choose_, Noah. This is harder than it looks, okay? You just don't get it . . ."

"Don't get it? I don't _get _it? Of course I get it, Rachel. For like, seven months, I had to choose between keeping my best friend and or getting the girl and my kid. Do you think that's an easy choice?"

"That was high school. Everything is different now," Rachel murmurs.

"So, let me get this straight. You're worried about your _high school _boyfriend finding out that you slept with your roommate, but the fact that I got a chick pregnant, and ended up losing not one, but almost _three _people? Do you know how close Quinn was to letting go of Beth? Pretty damn fuckin' close, Rachel. My problems are real life too."

"No, that's not what I said!"

"_Yeah_, it is. Look, I don't have time to discuss how fucked up my life is. I'll see you later."

Rachel watches him go, torn between going back to work and following him. But Claire sticks her head out the door and says she needs help with measurements or something (of _course_ she does) so Rachel heads back inside.

* * *

It's almost eleven when Puck gets a text. If he was being honest, he'd say that he was doing nothing but slowly dying of boredom. No, really, he was eyeing the kitchen knife as if it was the Messiah. But you know, he'd never been the emotional type to wallow away in pity of his shitty life, so he did what all men did. Turned on the TV, watched a game and ignored the rest of the world.

**Puck, I'm so sorry. I don't know if it's any consolation, but Jesse has gone to a new premiere tonight, and he won't be back until Monday . . . That's three days. Three days of total, utter isolation. But I'm just letting you know.**

Okay, so Rachel never really got the whole texts-make-language-shorter-because-humans-are-a-bunch-of-lazy-asses thing. But even if she practically wrote him a letter, it was a damn _sexy_ letter, in a Rachel Berry kind of way. Was she . . . Offering phone sex?

He shakes his head of those (excellent) thoughts before replying. Who needs phone sex when you have an empty apartment and the lonely girlfriend of St Douche the Eighth?

**Touché, babe. B there in 10. **

_I_ _woke up again last night. You smell of him__  
__Do we need to call a doctor?__  
__I don't know where you've been__  
__Was it worth it? Was it worth it?_

_But you're obsessed with the sex girl__  
__Should I confess that you never got the best from me_

**{**Amy Meredith – Lying**}**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N**: I'm warning you now, smut ahead.

_

* * *

_

_I turn the lights out__  
__I clean the sheets__  
__You change the station__  
__Turn up the heat_

_And now you`re sitting__  
__Upon your chair__  
__You`ve got me tangled up__  
__In your beautiful black hair_

**{**Sea Wolf – The Violet Hour** } **

He's there in less than ten minutes, actually. Turns out there's a sneaky little way around all the traffic in New York, through a couple of alleyways and around a few dodgy buildings and you're in their driveway.

The apartment block is friggan' huge. Puck has a suspicion Jesse likes showing off. (Of course he does. Second regionals – when _McKinley _won – they had their jackets bedazzled in a self-portrait of themselves.)

Puck presses the buzzer about sixty times. He knows she hates this kind of stuff. "Hello?" Rachel calls over the intercom, sounding annoyed.

As he's waiting in the lift, he's already thinking about her, in front of him, in her panties . . . See, last time, they were yellow right, and-

His train of thought must've been swept out of his brain by the breeze. Rachel opens the door, standing there in this pink night slip _thing_, and it's got white lace on it and it's cotton and _holy shit_, he can't speak.

She's not wearing a bra, either.

_Wow_.

"Do you want to come in?" Rachel asks innocently.

"Yeah," he nods, his eyes still raking over her body. "That'd be good."

"So, while Jesse is-"

"I don't want to hear his name. At all. It's a gay name. Who calls someone _Jesse_, I mean-"

"Noah?"

"Yeah?"

"Please, shut up, now."

Like those are the magic words, he's got his lips on hers. His fingertips are running through her hair, and she thinks is a thousand times better with Puck than it ever was with Jesse. When he starts tugging on the hem of her dress, though, she has to intervene. "Noah- _Noah- _Wait, no, really . . . Stop for a minute- Can we get out of the doorway first?"

Puck's head snaps around to see that the door is still wide open and he can hear some little kids running down the hallway. A twelve-year-old pokes his through the door, his jaw practically on the floor.

"Scram, kid, she's way out of your league," Puck grunts, slamming the door shut.

"Noah," she warns, but she's biting her lip in this playful kind of way that always tells him whether she's mad or horny.

"So . . . Bedroom? Kitchen? Shower? Your house, your choice, baby," he says with a grin.

She pauses for a minute, then takes his hand and drags him up the stairs. "This way . . ." Rachel murmurs in an incredibly sexy, shy way. She reaches her room (_their room_) with the wide, open windows and the balcony that gives a great view and ensuite. You know, all the stuff Rachel deserves.

But she's pulling his shirt up over his shoulders and tossing it onto the floor, and so who really cares? Jesse might _provide _for her, but Puck makes her _happy_. Maybe Rachel isn't so wrong for wanting both of them. Maybe he'd do the same thing, if he was in her position.

Hah, no he wouldn't. Like anyone would choose _Jesse_ _St James_.

(He forgets she sort of already has.)

Rachel presses herself against him, dragging the zipper of her dress down slowly. His thoughts go out the window with that. His fingers slides down her body, making her shiver slightly. With a flick of his wrist, the pink cotton straps are falling down her shoulders, and with another, the material pools at her feet. Rachel looks at him blankly – almost shyly – as his eyes graze over her body, scrutinizing and analysing and sorting incoherent thoughts from coherent ones.

Puck moves in to kiss her again. His lips are brushing against her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. Down the valley of her breasts and across the plain of her stomach. She almost jumps when she feels his tongue against her nipple, and the moan that escapes her lips is uncontrollable when his teeth graze against her skin gently.

Rachel really, really, _really_ wants Puck to be touching her right now, but she doesn't know how to ask and she doesn't want to rush it. But when his fingers are tugging on her hair slightly, its enough to make her realise that she _needs _this.

"Noah . . ." she mumbles, her thumbs slipping beneath the waistband of hr underwear as she yanks them off. "Just- Now, okay?"

Rachel can feel his silent laughter shaking his frame as he picks her up and sits her on the bathroom bench. She rests her head on his bare shoulder as his hands push her knees apart slightly. She's always loved his hands – musician's hands. Truthfully, watching them sweep over piano keys and strums low chords had always been totally, utterly sexy back in high school. It was nothing like this though – watching was nothing like having him playing her body like his favourite instrument.

Puck adds another finger, and Rachel knows soon he's going to brush over that spot inside her. She's counting on him to.

But when he leans down and pulls back, Rachel just about topples on the bench. She grasps onto the bench for support, because his hands are gone now, and all she can feel is this throbbing need.

Puck's tongue darts inside of her. Her breathing is unsteady; she's still a little shocked from his lips against her thigh, his tongue exploring her. When he pulls away for a second time, her shoulders slump back against the wall as she groans. Rachel's mouth is open to complain, but Puck presses his lips to hers before she's got even got one syllable out. "Later. I promise."

She'll take his word for it. Rachel hooks her fingers through the belt loops of his jeans, guiding him back out of the ensuite and towards the bed. She drops onto the bed while Puck unzips his pants and practically flies out of them. Rachel slips her hand into his boxers, her fingertips ghosting over his erection before dropping the last piece of material to the floor. He's just settled down, hovering over her, when his face lights up.

"_Shit_! Condom," Puck explains, digging through his back pocket, snatching up his wallet and searching it. Rachel watches him, mostly impatient and slightly nervous. He kisses her before going back to his pre-protection position – hovering over Rachel – and looks her in the eyes. "Baby, you won't regret this," he tells her, which she thinks is his way of saying something reassuring and sweet; saying she isn't actually a bad person for this. And she has to believe him. She _has _to.

Puck slides into her slowly, breathing against her neck, before pulling out and pushing back in again. Over and over, until Rachel feels like she's getting higher and higher, and right now, she's at the very top. She's _this _close to-

It runs through her whole body. It's uncontrollable and dangerous, in these circumstances, to like (love) this so much. Rachel can hear her name being called out distantly, and so she knows he's hit his orgasm too.

Ten minutes later, she opens her eyes. Puck's lying beside her, though she doesn't remember him pulling out, looking tired. She notices the condom in the trashcan on the other side of the room. Rachel almost tells him to throw it away somewhere else – to get rid of the evidence – because that's Jesse's side of the bed. She doesn't, however. Instead, Rachel shifts over until she feels his body heat and shuts her eyes closed.

* * *

Puck wakes up the next morning to a cloudy New York day, the smell of Rachel's perfume and an empty place beside him where Rachel was supposed to be. He's almost positive she's done a runner. Maybe he'll just wait here for Jesse to get home, then . . .

He wouldn't do it to her. She knows that too.

Puck collects his wallet and shirt and other forgotten items that had been splayed across the room. He's done this walk of shame a few (_way_)too many times. Depending on the girl and the circumstances, if he's about to get away this early, he's usually got his head held high in triumph. Nothing sucks more than a girl who wants you to hang around – or worse yet, won't leave. This morning, though, he doesn't really feel anything. It's just this kind of blank, empty blur of thoughts and feelings he should be having, but he's not. This Rachel thing is really messing him up.

(He won't give it up though. Not if he has a chance.)

As Puck is about to turn right and head out into the apartment hallway, he smells something. Something _good_. Something that makes his stomach grumble in hungry agony, because, now that he thinks about it, he hasn't eaten in about sixteen hours.

If Jesse's come home with a surprise breakfast for Rachel, not only is Puck going to be in a shit-load of trouble, but he's going to be unpleasantly surprised to see Rachel wouldn't even have the guts to stick around after something like that.

Except, unless Jesse has died his hair chocolate brown, grown it to his waist and turned into a small Jewish girl, then that's Rachel. She stuck around.

Puck lets out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding, and drops his shoes on the ground. Rachel jumps at the sound, running a hand through her hair and eyeing the pancakes cooking. "Sorry- I just- You scared me," she mutters. Puck smirks, inhaling the wonderful aromas.

"What're you cooking?"

"Chocolate chip pancakes."

His mouth goes dry. He hasn't had them since he was, like, fourteen and his mom would still occasionally cook him breakfast instead of handing him a box of fruit loops. It looks like Rachel is cooking them just the way Rina Puckerman did too – heavy on the chocolate chip. _Yum_.

"Sweet," Puck grins, opening her fridge and scanning over the contents. "You know what tastes _amazing _on chocolate chip pancakes?"

Rachel puts a hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow. "What?" She sounds so suspicious.

"Whipped cream," Puck says slowly, lifting his eyebrows suggestively. He advances on her, shaking the can threateningly.

"No! Not on my new shirt!" she hisses, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "On the _pancakes_, Noah, not on the woman cooking them."

Puck shrugs casually. "Or we could do both."

"_No_."

"Come on, Rach," he laughs. At this point, Rachel is just about cowering against the bench while Puck is hovering above her, can in hand. "It'll be fun. It'll be fun _and _sexy."

"_No!_"

Puck laughs as he swipes the whipped cream over her nose, creating a tiny dot. He takes her head in his hand, licks it off and kisses her.

"Okay, okay," she sighs, turning around and flipping the pancakes onto a plate. "Breakfast first, and then we'll talk about the whipped cream."

That pretty much means he's won. Whipped cream and a weekend alone? She'd be stupid not to take it.

The pancakes are fucking amazing. He eats three before she tells him to stop. Being the delicate little thing she is, she only eats one and a half, and so he gets the rest anyway. Today is going to be _good_.

Rachel is cleaning up the dishes in the sink when he strolls up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist and kisses the shell of her ear. She turns slightly at the touch, kissing him over her shoulder.

"Okay, okay. So, back to the whipped cream subject-"

Rachel and Puck both hear it. The sound of footsteps down the hallway, the quiet racket of a suitcase being pulled along behind whoever is walking, echoes through the seventeenth floor. Rachel recognises his voice because he's humming; Puck recognises his timing because Jesse St James ruins _everything_.

"No," Rachel whispers, running a hand through her hair, her free hand gripping the bench for support. "You have to hide- You have to get out, Noah!"

"What do you want me to do? Jump out the window?" he mutters sarcastically.

"Go stand behind the bookcase. When he comes into the kitchen, run for it-"

"My wallet-"

"I'm working today from three until nine. Come and get in from me then."

"Rach-"

"Shh!" Rachel hisses, pushing him towards the right side of the bookcase. If Jesse walked straight into the kitchen and didn't turn around, Puck would be fine. If he turned around, though . . .

Rachel looks at Puck nervously as the key clicks in the lock. Jesse appears a few seconds later, his huge suitcase in hand and his hair perfect and he's looking just plain handsome.

She shouldn't ask for more than Jesse. Jesse should be enough.

(He's not, though.)

"Rachel," Jesse sighs, smiling. Puck just about gags and blows chunks all over St James' fancy bookcase, but he holds it in for Rachel. "God, I've missed you." Jesse kisses Rachel then, the way Puck had kissed her time and time again last night and this morning. He'd like to say it made him sick, but it didn't even do that. It made him feel like a loser.

Jesse's back is turned, so Puck goes to make a run for it.

"Hang on; I just have to go get my laptop bag out of the car. I couldn't carry it all," Jesse explains, turning around. Rachel's mouth is hanging open – she's noticed Puck standing there too. It's hard to miss him creeping out the doorway.

"Jesse! I was just about to tell you . . . Puck came over, just to se how we were going. We haven't spoken in months, have we Puck?"

His eyes are angry, but he goes along with it anyway. "Yeah. It's been a long time."

Jesse takes a step forward. "You visited my girlfriend at ten in the morning?"

"On my way to work," Puck murmurs. "I got to go. I'm running late."

"Bye, Puck," Rachel says airily. "I'll be at work today, if you want to have a chat over a latte."

"Yeah, sure," he replies, flying out the door.

Jesse watches him go, his brow creased and a fist clenched in his pocket. "He's not- He wouldn't- Look, Rachel, you don't think that maybe Puck . . . . Likes you?"

Rachel decides to play it stupid to be safe. "Of course he likes me. We're friends."

"But _more_ than friends. Maybe he wants you-"

"Oh, please, Jesse," she interrupts. "As if anything could ever happen between me and _him_."

She kind of likes this lying thing. It's sick and wrong but she's good at it, and there are only a handful of things she's talented at. But when she is good at something, she tends to be _very_ good, and she's counting on that to some how get through this mess.

_Your arms are lovely__  
__Yellow and rose__  
__Your back's a meadow__  
__Covered in snow_

_You love all sailors__  
__But hate the beach__  
__You say "Come touch me"__  
__But you're always out of reach_

**{**Sea Wolf – The Violet Hour**}**


	10. Chapter 10

_Take anything you want, it's fine__  
__Keep up the slow life for the night__  
__Don't take it back, I'll just deny__  
__This constant noise all the time_

_Even though you're the only one I see__  
__It's the last catastrophe__  
__Place your bets on chance and apathy__  
__From the wind in front of me_

**{**Grizzly Bear – Slow Life**} **

Jesse heads to the room to unpack, and Rachel's running last night over in her head. The touches, the movements, the memory of him next to her . . . Excuse her if she's being a little dramatic, but she feels like she can't breathe; like something's wrong. That's when she remembers how incredibly stupid she had been.

"Jesse!" she squeals, sprinting down the hall and up the stairs. "I almost forgot! It's garbage day today! Let me get it!" Rachel leaps over the bed, ties a knot firmly in the bag and, with a pounding heart, goes to take it downstairs.

"Rachel? What's going on?" Jesse asks suspiciously.

"I- I-"

"You what?"

"I . . . I sort of had some people over last night," she says. The idea is unfolding in her mind slowly, as though the lie had always been there but she just hadn't seen it properly. "Just a couple of the girls from work, and a few came up here with the food and there was a big mess, but I think we cleaned it up okay." Rachel's tongue almost burns with the lie, but what's another one now?

"And you thought I'd be mad at that?" Jesse laughs, wrapping an arm around her. "You're funny, did you know that?"

"I'm not funny," she says stubbornly – like Rachel Berry would – and goes to throw it in the apartment garbage bin down stairs.

When she catches her reflection in a puddle on the steps outside, she doesn't recognise that girl anymore. Her features all look bigger or smaller or rearranged – something like that. She can tell it's her, but it just doesn't seem right . . . Maybe this whole thing is making her crazy.

Maybe she's crazy to still be going through with this whole thing.

* * *

It's been months of this, now. Almost twelve months with Jesse – a lot of lying to him, too. Puck says he doesn't care, as long as he gets her occasionally, but she's starting to not believe him. Of course he's angry, Puck doesn't share. Rachel doesn't either, but she doesn't mind _being_ shared.

The bright side of all of this, though, is that she's gotten an off-Broadway lead in a musical, and _finally_, she's going to make it. If she can be impressive enough, she might just get picked up by the glitz and glamour and thrown into the spotlight of the world, and then her life will be complete. She's in it with Luanna – the one she still trusts and likes – and things couldn't be better.

Except, she's gone and ruined it all, you see.

It's all just wrong, wrong, wrong. She can't stop thinking about it; she can't seem to find a way out of this without hurting someone. She could tell Jesse and break his heart, cut off all ties with Noah and break his heart, or just move back to Lima with her fathers without telling anyone, crushing her own dreams and breaking her heart. Because she knows she loves them both . . . She just has a feeling she loves one more than the other.

The trouble is, though, she doesn't know which boy it is.

One morning, she's a tangle of sheets and legs and clothes on his bed. He watches her from the other side of the room, a cigarette between his fingers, running a hand over his face.

"I shouldn't have come here, Noah," Rachel whispers quietly.

Puck shakes his head. "You say that every morning."

She sends him a glare, followed by a sigh. "Not mornings when I'm with Jesse. Not mornings when I haven't cheated."

He shrugs and looks around at his apartment. He thinks it's sad that it used to be theirs; that she used to be a part of this. That was more than a year ago – almost two, now. He still remembers how enthusiastically she had told him they would busk on the streets and she would work downtown until she got her big break. She has her big break now, he hears. He closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall and curses Jesse St What's-His-Face.

She wraps the sheets (his sheets) around her small frame and strides out of the room, tears in her eyes. _Drama queen_, he thinks with a sigh, watching her go.

"Rachel?" he calls out ten minutes later. "Rachel!"

"Yes?" she replies from the doorway, not meeting his gaze.

"Come here, Rach. Don't look at me like that." He notices that her fingers trace the little mark on her neck (his mark on her neck) briefly. "I just want to talk. Seriously." He doesn't, he just needs her to be next to him for a little while longer.

She smiles a small smile, crawling up next to him. "You know, I never thought I would have heard Noah Puckerman say that."

He scoffs, "Please, babe. There doesn't have to be any talking involved at all."

She rolls her eyes and smacks his arm. His body is _so _warm against her. She likes the way he rests his chin on her head and the way he holds her and the way he says her name (she likes everything about him). He kisses her hair and runs his hands up and down her arms.

"Why can't you just dump him?"

She ignores the question and sniffs, "I am so, so sorry. I shouldn't- Shouldn't- I'm hurting you, aren't I?"

He shrugs and turns his attention back to the sheet around her body. Unwrapping it from her, he kisses her, and it's back to the beginning again.

She thinks they're like a book. So many different stages of this relationship (but it's not a relationship) that could be referred to as chapters, and looking back over every memory is like flipping a page.

She knows, now, that these peaceful moments with Noah are only the calm before the storm; that this all comes to an end in the next chapter. They know this dance – this book – well. They've read it too many times.

* * *

"Rachel," Jesse says from the doorway. His eyes are dark and lowered to the ground, his hair falling over his forehead. "Where were you?"

"Running lines with Lu," she says flatly, placing her back on a chair. "You know we go through them more and more before performances."

"But why at her house?"

She looks at him earnestly, a small frown on her face and her hands on her hips. "Because she currently has no roommates, and I don't want to disturb you from running your own lines."

Okay, her voice has just a quarter ounce of venom. So what if he made an actual Broadway production and she's still on off-Broadway? It doesn't mean anything.

"Oh, Jesse, don't you trust me?"

She knows she plays innocence well.

He sighs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Rachel, I am. I just- I get worried that you're upset I landed the role in _Spring Awakening _and you didn't. It's not that bigger deal."

She smiles and taps her pen against her paper as she settles down to study. He's always loved subtly rubbings things in. But it's okay, because she loves him. She loves him. She loves him. "I know. But you shouldn't Jesse. I'm fine, really."

He takes her hands, pulls her up from the chair and wraps her arms around him. "God, you're gorgeous. And I never thought I'd see you again."

She smiles weakly, threading her fingers through his. "I guess its fate."

He grins wildly. "We _are_ fate, Rachel. Meeting in New York, with all our dreams laid out in front of us . . . We're fate."

"So superstitious," she says with a roll of hers, trying to push away the churn of her stomach. She didn't like talking about fate, about how _good _together they were; how _perfect_. All of a sudden, their apartment lights didn't seem so bright, and to an extent, their _relationship _seemed dull. Rachel blinks up at him and pulls away, sitting back down in her chair.

"I have to get this assignment done, Jess."

He shakes his head, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "Come on, Rach, we have time." His fingers trail along her collarbone as he kisses her cheek.(The shiver that runs down her spine is icier and more uncomfortable than it is when she's with Noah.)

"Really, Rachel, I have to talk to you. It's serious."

Rachel's head snaps up at that. Surely he'd be angrier if he knew, wouldn't he? That couldn't be it. Her mind is racing; not even noticing that Jesse has gotten down on one knee and is rummaging around in his pockets.

"Rachel-"

"Hm? Oh- _Oh_, Jesse . . ." Rachel mumbles.

"God, I love you, Rachel. You have no idea. You're beautiful and amazing and talented – you're so, so,_ so _talented. And I promise, I'm going to do everything for you, and I'm going to love you now and forever. Will you marry me?" The words are so rehearsed, but he's performing them well. She thinks he's serious.

"I- I- I-"

He takes it as a yes, sliding the ring over her finger carefully.

* * *

Rachel goes to visit Puck late that night. Jesse is at rehearsal ('_I'm sorry, baby, we'll celebrate tomorrow'_) and he won't be back for a long time. He grins at her in the doorway (he's more shameless about all of this than she is) and she kisses him as soon as he shuts the door, flinging her arms around his neck because she can't do this much longer.

When Rachel places her hands on either side of his face, Puck almost doesn't notice the cold, thin strip of metal touching his cheek. But he does. He takes her hand in his, pulling it into his eyesight. She swallows hard as he studies the ring, his face falling.

"He proposed . . ." Puck isn't asking. He knows she said yes.

"I couldn't- I just- I didn't know what to do, Noah. I still don't!" she cries, touching his arm. He flinches away, and she thinks she may have miscalculated how much this could hurt them all.

He pauses before looking at her, murder written on his face. Rachel isn't even thinking anymore – all her thoughts have broken down and disappeared. "Stop using that as an excuse! I'm so_ sick_ of you saying that you '_don't know_'! You've got to fucking know, okay? This is _your mess_."

Her throat feels dry as she hisses, "_Don't _pretend you haven't played a part in this."

"Fuck you," he says angrily. She thinks he's been holding that one in for a while. He's never sworn _at _her before – it feels like being slapped. "Fuck you and your fiancé and your twisted life. Fuck you all."

"_Don't speak to me that way_!" she shrieks. This isn't fair, this isn't fair, this isn't fair. "I'm not _Finn_ or one of your other _friends_. I'm a _girl_, Noah, and you have no idea how to respect one! If you hate me so much, why do you keep going on with it? Why didn't you just say so?"

"I never said I hated you," Puck says quietly. He's still fuming, she can almost feel it radiating off him. "But maybe I do."

"What _do _you feel then, Noah? I'm starting to doubt you feel much at all."

"You think _I _don't _feel _anything?" Puck's hands are shaking. "You and your _fake _boyfriend and your _stupid _lies that don't even sound _real _anymore! There's no way you two feel anything. How the hell does he believe you? You're such a _bitch_, trailing guys along like that." He's never yelled at her before. He never tells her when he's angry or upset, and now it's spilling out of him.

"_STOP_!" Rachel screams – a mix of her sobs and cries and shrieks all rolled into one. "Stop, stop, _stop_." It hurts because Rachel thinks – Rachel _knows_ – it's true, and there's no denying any of it anymore. Why does he have to be so angry? Why is he so loud?

There's a silence while Rachel stares at the floor and he glares at her and there's so much tension in the room, she might suffocate from it.

"Why didn't you tell me you dropped out of NYU?"

Rachel's head snaps up. "What?"

"You dropped out. I heard what's-her-face-" Rachel glares at him here, "-talking about it at your work. Why?"

"I wasn't made to learn," she says flatly. Rachel had gone over this time and time again in her head, but it sounded so flat on her tongue as opposed to in her head, where it felt so inspirational. "I was made for bigger and better things. Jesse assured me of it – even if it was something I already knew."

A wooden chair goes flying across the room as Puck's foot makes contact with it. He probably snapped it in half – neither of them cares about furniture right now. He likes the sound, even if that sounds a little 'emo'. He likes the satisfaction of the crash and the vibrations running through the floor. Puck likes the sound of smashing glass too – nothing like broken glass to cure anger.

Okay, so yes, he's getting _a little _aggressive.

"Did you ever go to the NYPD?"

"There's no fuckin' _point _anymore. I couldn't give a shit about it."

Rachel stares at him. His face is blank and, for a little while, she almost believes he's given up – that she's made him give up. "Don't- You can't just-"

"Can't just _what_?"

"You can't give up like that!"

His eyes fall to her hand, where the rock of a ring is resting. "I dunno. Looks like you have." She doesn't quite know what he means but really, it's not that hard to guess.

"I should go."

"You should," he replies lowly and distantly, turning away from her.

She flies out the doors, tears prickling her eyes and her engagement ring feeling at least twenty times heavier than it had before.

_I think I know what's on your mind__  
__A couple words, a great divide__  
__Waiting in the wings, a small respite__  
__Crowding up the foreground from behind_

_Even though you're the only one I see__  
__It's the last catastrophe__  
__Place your bets on chance and apathy_

**{**Grizzly Bear – Slow Life**}**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Sorry this has taken forever and a day to post, but God, things don't slow down.

This is for the girl who was hit by a car, just outside my house. I'm sorry, so sorry, but _none of us knew who you were_.

* * *

_But take it from me;__I'm disorderly  
And you'd be off better__  
__Writing someone else your love letter_

_Well a telegram's no substitute__  
When it comes to living proof_

_And of course I wanna know you better__  
But you know the way it goes_

**{**Lisa Mitchell – Love Letter**} **

The news gets out, and it feels like a big blur of _oh_'s and _ah_'s and _I'm so happy for you_! Luanna will be Rachel's Maid of Honour, with Quinn and Tina as her bridesmaids. She doesn't know how that happened, especially since Tina was in Chicago. She'd rather have them than Claire, who will _not _be in the wedding party, but merely another guest. The whole glee club was coming, in fact. Kurt can't come until later on, which is good, because he'd take over the whole thing otherwise.

Noah Puckerman won't be there. She made that choice herself, even if Jesse tried to get her to think over her decision like the wise, mature man he is. She and Noah had been friends for a long time, out here in New York.

The four girls – Luanna, Tina, Quinn and Rachel – laugh over champagne and talk about tiny details. Rachel is starting to like alcohol more and more, she realises.

"It should be after our performance," Luanna says smartly (if not a little drunkenly) which starts a round of nods and giggles and _'more champagne_!' from the other girls.

"It'll be a performance of its own," Quinn says brightly.

Rachel knows what she means – that their wedding will be bigger and better and _so _much more beautiful than any Broadway production. But still, she can't help that think it might end up being a little too staged, too rehearsed.

Too fake, perhaps.

_It's the alcohol talking_, she thinks to herself before sipping down the rest of her glass and turning on some music. This discussion was getting too far into details this early in the engagement, anyway.

She and Jesse are going strong. He brings her flowers and kisses her cheek and every night is blissful and sweet, just like it should be. He's a romantic, dramatic, wonderful person, and as the months drag on, leaving the Noah-fiasco in the past, she feels more and more like she could deserve a man like this.

He lets her wear his shirts and they go on walks and she cooks him food. She has everything she wanted(_it doesn't feel like enough_) and she hasn't thought otherwise in a long time (_oh God, she misses him, she misses him, she misses him_).

Rachel is staring out at the theatre, standing on _her _stage, imaging the people in awe, sitting in the currently empty red seats.

"Like the looks of it, don't you?" says a voice from behind her. Rachel whirls to find her fiancé, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. "Have you got butterflies?"

Rachel inhales deeply, looking around. A smile plays on her lips as she hugs herself tightly, her dreams unfolding before her eyes. "No," she says, and it's honest. She isn't nervous . . . Just anticipating. She wishes she were performing right now.

He sits in the front row while she goes through her first dress rehearsal , clapping after her songs. It's a remake of _The Wizard of Oz_, not Wicked, but it is enough to get New York interested. And if it's enough for New York, it's enough for her.

He meets her out the back, combs his hands through her hair and tells her how beautiful she looked. Her eyes flutter shut on the ride home, because it's so late at night, and Jesse's should is really quite comfortable.

* * *

She runs into Puck somewhere between Jesse's apartment and hers – she's taking a walk because she loves New York, and he's running because he's sick of thinking about her.

He stops in his path, because she's beautiful. It's autumn now (they'll have a summer wedding) and she's wearing a floral dress, her hair curling around her shoulders, the midday sun shining its rays over her shoulder. She hasn't caught his eye yet, and if Puck turns around, he doesn't have to face her.

But really, she looks gorgeous. Puck doesn't know if he can turn away.

When she does see him, she stops just like him. Rachel would like to say it was romantic, that she didn't know how long they stood their like that; that it could have been hours or minutes or simply a few brief seconds. But she knows it was exactly seven minutes and thirty-two seconds they stood on New York's sidewalk, watching each other even though passing people obstructed their view.

She takes a few steps towards him. Puck can _feel _the hot blood slithering through his veins, and any muscle that even tweaks just a little, and even little sunray hitting his back through the cotton of his grey t-shirt. He's never been more aware of anything, and he doesn't know _why_. Shouldn't he be concentrating of the blank-faced, sexy woman heading straight to him?

"Our engagement party . . ." she breathes, and his brain misinterprets that for _us_, Noah and Rachel, these two people right here. "It's in three weeks from today, at our apartment, starting at five. Everyone will be there from Glee club." Seconds tick on (_now nine minutes and forty-seven seconds_) And if he really, truly thinks about the words and less about the meaning, it's like Rachel Berry is controlling _his _and _her_ engagement, and not _theirs_.

Pucks not thinking, though, and he doesn't get the chance to clear his head before she pushes past him and disappears fair off into the crowd.

She doesn't know what changed her mind – he was _not _supposed to be coming to the wedding, or the engagement. Just seeing him . . . Just being there, for those seven minutes and thirty-two seconds . . . She can't even explain it.

But Rachel is pretty sure it's not a good sign that her stomach twists, and God, she feels rejection wash over her. Which, really, is ridiculous, because _she _rejected _him_. And that's exactly what he would tell her, if he were still here now.

But he's not. She walked away. She keeps doing that.

* * *

Rachel comes off the stage of her first performance. It had all been dragging on so slow until the about five minutes 'til the curtain opened, when everything blurred. She could've said every single line wrong, and missed every note – all she remembered from it was the lights. Bright, beaming lights shining down on her, lighting up her stage. And now it was all happening so quickly – final bow, back to change room, costumes off and handed to management for cleaning, ironing and pressing, back into normal clothes, out for drinks, 'wait! Where's the limo?', drunk co-stars, more bright lights, laughing on the table top, Jesse's voice in her ear.

"Let's go home, baby."

She lets him wrap and arm around her waist and help her off the bar bench. Jesse takes her home, and it's still going so fast. She's in bed what feels like minutes later, an aspirin and a glass of water by her side for when she wakes up, her red-sequined heels perched by the doorway (she gets to keep them, but she has to pay).

And the last thing she remembers is a subconscious image of a man who looks _just _like Noah, waiting outside the theatre, watching her slur and stumble down the street.

Her imagination is a funny thing.

* * *

Puck comes home, shaking from the cold.

He doesn't remember why he _bothered_ by tickets.

(Except, Rachel standing there under golden lights, her sequined heels sparkling, singing until there was no breath left in her seemed like a worthy cause. At least, it had when the tickets went on sale.)

* * *

When Rachel wakes up, things still don't slow down. Her head is pounding too fast, and she doesn't have a show tonight so its more wedding-planning and dress-picking and _oh, I'm so happy for you!_ Quinn is coming over and she might have a headache, but what kind of excuse is that? Rachel is getting married!

_Woo_.

It goes on like this. Planning, performing, aspirin, lights, Quinn, headaches, dresses . . . They pick on a date – July 29th, a summer wedding. Rachel has chosen a dress, strapless and long with a skirt made of so much tulle that it looks like she's floating in a pretty array of white silks. They're holding it at a huge church, as Jesse is Christian (_it could be at a synagogue, if she were marrying someone else_) and he has his closest co-star as best man, with two old Vocal Adrenaline teammates (_could've been Finn and Matt_). The after party will be classy, with champagne and big-named people (_it could have been _fun).

Whenever Rachel has a headache, she secretly thinks of Noah up there in a suit, his dark eyes settling on her as she walks through the door in her beautiful dress. And everyone would be looking at her, because she'd be _glowing_, but she'd be watching 'the poor sucker at the altar' (how she always loved _27 Dresses_, now it feels like a nightmare).

And she could have _Notebook_ moments – kissing in the rain and dancing on the street – or she could have classy, elegant romance – roses and expensive dinners and nice presents.

Rachel eventually gets so confused that she's able to fall asleep easily, forgetting about her throbbing, aching mind.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God. _

She's always known a wedding wouldn't be easy – but it should be easy to tell if its _right_, right? She should know what she wants (she does) and she should know how to get that (she doesn't). _Oooh,_ there goes the head pain again.

* * *

Two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks.

They've chosen the rings, and because Jesse is such a _perfect _fiancé (soon-to-be perfect _husband_), everything is ready so that all she has to do on the day is look beautiful and say 'I do'. The invites were sent two weeks ago (she still has Noah's in her purse) and the cake is all planned. She literally has nothing to do but perform – which is hardly even nerve-racking anymore, but totally, naturally easy – and go to their fancy dinner parties.

Hey world is laced with compliments that say she's _glowing_, and woven into the lace is an intricate beading of friends and family who are just _so happy _for her. She can't believe it; all of it; _any _of it.

The day is fast arriving, and she is quickly fading away, lost in a sea of bouquets and tulle and waltzes.

(_Drowning in it all_.)

* * *

Puck hears about their engagement through all the New York streets – people who know him from Broadway and know her as 'the budding star' and all of that. He's featured on _Perez Hilton _and such other gossip blogs because Jesse St James has been on Oprah with all his _upcoming talent _and he mentioned Rachel, his _talented fiancée_ and the whole thing just makes Puck sick.

He spends his days working with cars and taking orders from his boss, Rick. He still has the acceptance letter under his bed (the one that he tore open, hoping for a little luck to lighten up the darkness) that reads something like this:

_Dear Mr Puckerman,_

_We are sorry to say that you have not made the New York Police Department . . . _

And then more formal things that didn't seem to make sense after such a quick rejection. Puck told Rachel that he hadn't tried, because it'd only make him seem more pathetic, and clearly he's too much of that for her, anyway.

He still doesn't get why he didn't make it. He worked hard. Sure, he swore a little every now and again ('_Fuck! What was that? Holy shit! This course is friggan' torture, you fucking know that? Stop looking at me, bastard, you don't have to fucking run this far!'_) but who didn't? He could've been great.

So now, career plan 2.0 is still in the making and he doesn't know what it will be. He can sing and stuff but . . . That's Rachel's business, and he doesn't want to go anywhere near her or_ him_ or their whole life. Puck doesn't know whether he's angrier that she's moved on or the fact that he's meddled with it all.

He wonders how much hard work would go into setting up his own garage; he hates hard work. But if Rachel Berry and Jesse St James are allowed to have dreams, along with the rest of NYC, then he should too, right?

He picks up his phone to make some calls.

Life moves on, and so will he.

(It might take forever, but he will.)

_So I need a flight home__  
There's no day to argue  
No I need my pillow_

_Well inside an old house, by the seaside  
You can take off my blouse  
But take it from me;_

_Go on and write somebody else,__  
__Somebody else__  
__Somebody else a love letter_

**{**Lisa Mitchell – Love Letter**} **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **This is my own birthday present, from me to you :)

_

* * *

I can't stand I'm just no good for you  
Oooh__  
__I can't stand I'm just no good for you for you,  
For you ohhh__  
__She said that my chance has been and gone_

**{**The Pigeon Detectives – I found Out**}**

Here we are – the finishing line. The night before the wedding.

Rachel is staying in their apartment alone, with Quinn and Tina staying down the street at a motel. She stares at the bedroom ceiling as she tries to fall into sleep, remembering the glow-in-the-dark stickers her fathers had stuck on her roof when she was a little girl. She had dreamed and dreamed that somewhere amongst the glowing little stars was Rachel Berry. Now it was true, and on that star's finger was a wedding ring and a fiancée close by its side.

She misses her little stars now – they had been so comforting in the dark. Her Daddy always said, '_Don't be afraid, beautiful, your stars will lead the way_'. She had grown to be dependant on them to be there as a guidance, and so when she moved out, the temptation was to peel them off and glue them back on the New York apartment ceiling. She didn't though – she was her _own _star.

And yet she was here - years on from being that same little girl, from living in Lima and needing any guidance whatsoever - and she missed her stars. The night before she was getting married and she thought she needed tacky little _stickers _to be there for her.

Rachel, truthfully, does not believe this is how you should feel before your get married. But it's _one night _before she gets married, and Jesse is truly, utterly perfect and tomorrow is going to be beautiful.

Someone knocks on her door at ten thirty (_Noah, Noah, Noah_ – he never did come to the engagement party) and so Rachel jumps out of bed to get it. She wasn't getting any closer to sleep, anyway.

When she finds a petite, pretty blond on her doorstep, her hair windy from the summer night breeze and wearing the blue dress she had been wearing six hours ago, Rachel doesn't understand. "Quinn? What are you . . . What are you doing here? You should be resting; we have a long day ahead. You'll be stunning; we all will. Where's Tina? Does she know you're-"

"I just wanted to chat," Quinn says, pushing past Rachel and flopping down on the couch. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?"

Rachel thinks about it for a minute, searching for the truthful answer. Finally, she mutters, "No." Quinn mulls that over, staring at her knuckles and nodding her head. From the expression on her face, Rachel thinks her answer might not have been the best one.

"I know- Okay, Rachel, I _definitely_ know I shouldn't be here now. I shouldn't be talking to you about what I'm talking about-"

"But we aren't talking about anything!"

Quinn gives her a look. "- but I have to. It's been eating away at me, and I can't sleep. I had a feeling you couldn't either." Rachel nods. "Most wives-to-be do – I would know, all of my country-club cousins married at the age of twenty in big churches so they could suffer a life time of pretty, fake romance. I don't want you to be like that."

"I don't understand-"

"You do," Quinn insists. "I _know _you do. When I brought Beth up here, you two . . . God, I swear . . . I mean, you and Finn were charming and all together, but even with you and Puck fighting you could see _it_."

"Quinn, I really have no idea what you're talking about. What is '_it'_?"

"Sexual tension, unresolved mutual feelings . . . It was practically dripping from your eye sockets, Rachel, you two are _meant _to be together. And, honestly, I _don't_ want to know the details, but if you can tell me that there hasn't _once_ been an occasion when you two haven't gotten together – or at least come close to it – then I'll go. We can forget this conversation."

"Quinn, I really don't think you should be here. It's late and-"

"Answer me, Rachel."

"No! Tomorrow morning, I'm getting married to Jesse. It's going to be in a nice big church, and everyone is going to say we look perfect. Jesse will look at me like a loving husband should and we'll waltz in synchronization. It'll be _perfect_!" Rachel's eyes start to burn at the realisation of how very long 'man and wife forever' will be, and the realisation that forever is with Jesse. Before she knows it, she's crying uncontrollably.

She doesn't want _perfect_ so much, anymore.

"Oh, sweetie," Quinn says softly, wrapping an arm around Rachel's shoulders. Rachel leans her head on Quinn's shoulder, and they stay like that, staring out the window at the real stars, both trying to figure out what to do.

By three in the morning, Rachel has stopped crying. "If you'll excuse me, Quinn, I have to go rest. I have a wedding to attend tomorrow." Quinn frowns at the formality of it all, at the absurdity. Rachel has made up her mind, though, and starts to shoo Quinn out the door. "Have a lovely night, Quinn."

"But-"

"Go sleep. I can't have a head bridesmaid with rings under her eyes, now, can I?"

"Rachel, you're in love with Puck. And if you don't do something about it, I feel really sorry for you," Quinn says quietly and sadly, turning her back on Rachel and heading towards the elevator.

Rachel ends up taking heavy painkillers, the kind that make her so drowsy she can barely make it back to her room, so she can finally get some sleep.

Marriage is painful, and it hasn't even started.

(She has dreams, but they are so dark and emotionless that she can barely make anything of the images in her head. That is, until she hears a scream, and then she gets a good idea of where the dream is going.)

* * *

The next morning, Tina picks Rachel up and takes her to The New York Palace, where they'll get ready, as the church is down the road. Tina and Quinn and Luanna are all wearing dresses of gold, with detailed embroidery and soft fabric that reaches the floor. They're all set, pretty much, now it's her turn.

The hairstylist, Duncan (no last name, they say), is _apparently_ hugely known in France. Luanna would know – she travels everywhere.

The three girls are crowding around her, cooing over her hair and helping Duncan decide where this strand should go and whether there should be ribbon. They're all a bit tipsy, though, and so none of them really know what they are saying. It's okay though, because all they have to do in the ceremony is walk and look stunning, and they aren't _that _drunk that they can't take a step, yet.

Luanna pops out for some fresh air when she starts to look flushed, leaving Tina and Quinn to stumble off and get their make up done in the next room over.

The door flies open about ten minutes later. Puck stands in her doorway, his cheeks red and sweat dripping down his forehead. Duncan looks between them, then backs out of the room slowly.

"You came," she whispers.

"I came."

It takes a few minutes, but Rachel finally jumps up and wraps her arms around him. He inhales her hair and she avoids getting too close to him, because it's a hot day, he's sweaty and she looks amazing.

_Amazing because I am about to get married, _she reminds herself, pulling away. _Marriage, marriage, marriage_. It sounds funny on your tongue, when it's about to happen.

"I- I don't think you should be here," she says, pleading him to make this easier.

"But you-"

"Not in this room. You're welcome to stay for the ceremony." (_Please just leave, I can't handle this_.)

"Do you want me to?" (_Tell me you love me._)

"I don't know." (_Yes, yes, yes. I'm sorry._)

"That's fine with me." (_It's not fine, say it to me._) He leans in to kiss her when the door bursts open again, making Puck and Rachel pull away like terrified cats.

It's the first time she's really, truly seen Jesse angry. His fists are shaking, his knees look like they are about to give out and the look in his eyes could burn a hole through the wall. Puck shuts his eyes and rubs his temples, while Rachel sinks into the chair next to hair. "It's not what you-"

"Stop. Telling me. Lies," he snarls at her, turning to face Puck. "You, Puckerman, need to get the _fuck _out of here!"

Puck throws his hands in the air. "Whoa, just calm down, buddy-"

"_Tell me the truth_!" Jesse yells, slamming his fist against the wall.

Rachel's voice is small and nervous when she speaks. "What . . . What makes you think that I would-"

"Luanna," Jesse spits. "I heard from _Luanna_, your _best friend_, when we were having a friendly chat. Maybe it was because she was drunk, and she didn't know she wasn't meant to vomit up all of your dirty little secrets, but when I mentioned all those times you stayed at her place she said she had _no idea_ what I was talking about!"

"Jesse, I-"

"Shut up! I want to hear it from you, Puckerman. What the fuck made you think you could lay your hands on my girlfriend?"

"You don't love her," Puck growls. "You never have, and you never will. You don't even know what the hell _love _is. You're just this fuckin' robot that walks around thinking he's a god. You wanted her because she'd make a nice trophy when you became famous!"

"I've never felt this way about _anyone_ before. Especially now – no one's ever backstabbed me like she has. This is the second time, isn't it, Rachel? This is the _second time _you've _broken my heart_! You can rot in hell with your stupid, degrading, loser of a man. You don't even deserve him. You're a slut."

"_DON'T TALK TO HER THAT WAY!_"

Jesse's hand collides fist collides with Puck's mouth. Rachel is left sobbing and gasping, burying her face in her hands, eyeing her wedding dress that will never be and pulling the pins from her hair. She would break them apart if she could, but how?

Footsteps sound from the hallway, the door bangs open, Jesse's groomsmen pull them apart. She looks at it all through her blurring tears that burn her eyes. She hears the gasp of the rest of the wedding party, and she has never _ever _been more ashamed. Rachel jumps up and rushes to the bathroom, tears in her eyes and lunch coming back up her throat.

This is not how wedding is supposed to end.

(But this is it, this is the end. She should have known it was coming.)

* * *

Rachel surfaces from the almost oxygen-free, stuffy bathroom three hours and thirteen minutes later, mascara dripping and the room quiet around her. She suspects everyone has abandoned the lying, cheating, terrible bride-to-be, and is therefore startled when she sees a black-eyed man sitting on a chair.

"You've been there the whole time?" she chokes out.

"Yeah," Puck replies, lacing his knuckles together. "I've had to piss for the last hour, but I couldn't tell if you'd ever come out, and I didn't want to miss you . . ."

Rachel's brow is knit together, wringing her hands subconsciously as she takes a step forwards. "Who else is here?"

"Quinn and Tina and Lu. Jesse is long gone, and no one really knows where." Puck looks up at her, his eyes burning. "Your folks are still here, but his were 'outraged' or some shit like that. Pretty much everyone who likes you is still here, wondering where the hell you went."

"Yes, all five of them," she snorts quietly, sitting down across the room. She doesn't want to be close yet.

There's a note beside Rachel, on the bench, with her name on it. It's printed in Jesse's fine form, so she tears it open quickly. (She's hoping this is like a bandaid – the faster it happens, the less it hurts.)

_Rachel, _

_You _are_ a cheating, lying slut. You broke my heart, and it's all I had to give you. _

_But I loved you. So, so much. I can't write anymore than this; I don't truly know why I wrote this in the first place._

_For the last time – no more chances – all my love,  
Jesse_

Puck lets Rachel cry all over his shirt, holding his hand one minute before sobbing loudly and pulling away. He sits there, taking her in his arms when she needs it, letting her go when she can't stand it, whispering things when she's silent, being silent while she's screaming.

They stay the night, repeating the painful process. She thinks she's going to hell.

_I found out you're going out with him__  
__(Going out with)__  
__(Going out with)__  
__You, would not believe the state I'm in__  
__(Going out with)__  
__(Yes you're going out with)_

**{**The Pigeon Detectives – I Found Out**} **


	13. Epilogue

_I wanted love, I needed love__  
__Most of all, most of all . . .__  
__Someone said "True Love" was dead__  
__But I'm bound to fall__  
__Bound to fall for you__  
__Oh what can I do?_

**{**The Black Keys – Tighten Up**}**

**EPILOGUE**

Rachel stares at the glass in her hand, the bubbles calming in such a situation like this. Tina and Quinn and Luanna are all around her, talking and whispering. They're all slightly buzzed, once again.

"Oh Rach, I'm so sorry your life had to come to this!" Quinn slurs.

Tina smacks the blond over the arm. "She doesn't mean that, Rachel."

"I know," Rachel sighs. She puts on her best, bravest face, the actresses face, and stands up slowly. "If you'll excuse me, I think I need to shower. It's about time I cleaned up."

The three girls around her watch her go, whispering behind their hands.

Rachel stares at the ceiling for a while as she showers, imagining the outlines of her little stickers. She thinks she can see them now; that they're here for her again. And she's glad, because she's screwed up once and doesn't want to make the mistake again. Call it superstition, but this time she just _knows_ . . . She can feel it.

Rachel emerges from the bathroom with her makeup and hair done, courtesy of Duncan, and she slips past the giggling girls to get dressed. Today will be a long day, and things will never be the same and _gosh_, she just doesn't know if she can keep going like this.

(She can, she can, she can.)

Her fathers come to have a chat with her, kissing her on the cheek and telling her she'll be fine. They sit and talk for a little while, discussing plans with the other three and sipping on champagne. They head out after a while, making her feel that little bit more terrified and lonely, but she looks up at the ceiling and breathes in slowly.

"What're you doing, Rachel?" Luanna says softly in her fading Texan accent.

"Waiting," Rachel whispers. "For the stars to come back."

Luanna scrunches up her nose slightly, pats Rachel on the back and says, "I sure don't know what you mean, but you'll be fine, beautiful. Smile for me, won't you?"

Rachel smiles, placing her glass on the table and standing up. "It's time, ladies. Let's go."

Quinn grins at Rachel as they head out the door. It's a cold, windy, Autumn day, and as the four of them step into the car, they all coo memories to her. She stares out the window, watches New York pass (_oh, how far she has come . . ._) and tries to pick out the people she will meet or the places she hasn't gone to yet.

The three girls each kiss her cheek as they head inside one by one, until only Rachel is left, staring at the large wooden doors, waiting to walk in.

Right, left, right, left . . . All eyes are on her.

She spots her fathers at the front, and on the other side are Rina and Sarah Puckerman. She sees Claire in a purple dress that makes her look fat (_silent victory_) and Rick the mechanic, finally cleaned up and shaven for the first time since she met him. Artie and Finn are up ahead, looking awfully smart. The rest of the Glee club isn't too far away, giggling and whispering together, breathing in and out in synchronization because that's what harmony does. And then . . . Well then there is him, and he's the only one she sees after that. Noah Puckerman.

"_I do._"

Rachel wraps her arms around him as he brushes his lips against hers.

"_I love you._"

Fingertips brushing over the new rings, flowers being thrown, kisses on cheeks, dirty whispers into her ear when no one is looking.

"_Be with me forever_."

Late night partying, sweet goodbyes, plane tickets, long rides, hairpin headaches, public kissing on aeroplanes, Thailand beaches.

"_I love you too_."

And fairytale endings are really so very rare. Luck isn't even a factor, though, when the right person is _the_ right person, and Glee club is the thing that still glues you back together, even when you've just gotten married.

_Living just to keep going__  
__Going just to be sane.__  
__All the while I know__  
__It's such a shame__  
__I don't need to get steady__  
__I know just what to feel.__  
__Telling me to be ready, my dear_

**{**The Black Keys – Tighten Up**}**

* * *

A/N: I didn't expect this to be the last chapter, but it was . . . I guess that just happened : ) I'm happy with the ending, at least.


End file.
